The Same River Twice by Chris Offutt

with Eve!”
    â€œUh, what, Al?”
    â€œSex, sickness, and insects.”
    â€œInsects?”
    Solemn now, he licked saliva from his lips. Wind snapped his hair like a metronome.
    â€œHeaven has no insects! All flowers and no smog. Fresh fruits and vegetables. A paradise! Everything so pure that our body can digest seeds, stem, and core. That way there’s no urination or defecation. No need for toilets at all. Think of that!”
    I asked about the devil, and Al babbled for miles about his habits. Once a man knew God, old Lucifer worked on him extra, singling him out for special attention. A simple bedtime prayer drew the devil quick as a gnat. He’d make paint fall off your house and send you drunken workmen. You’d cut yourself shaving every morning if you didn’t pray first. He showed me proof—a network of tiny white scars the size of ringworms on his neck.
    According to Al, insects were Satan’s private little terrorist force. The Garden was bugless until Eve screwed up, but now the devil dispensed bee stings and mosquito bites. Flies fornicated on the formica. The day Al converted, a band of termites chewed his attic rafters in half and dropped the roof around the chimney. As a countermove, he began raising spiders.
    â€œThey eat insects like candy. I got some pedigreed for six generations. The good ones are in the back seat.”
    I peeked in the back. Nestled among frayed religious tracts were several jars. I stared out the window at the fruit trees, smelling lemon scent mingled with manure. Streaks of sky peeked through the gray haze. I studied the map and asked him to drop me off at the San Joaquin River a few miles away.
    â€œAfter Armageddon,” he said, “the earth will be smoky and black! Great chunks of landscape burnt to cinders. Every insect killed. God, my friend, is like a giant exterminator sparing only spiders and Christians. Think of that!”
    â€œWhat about survivors, Al?”
    â€œNone! I don’t mean to scare you, Chris, but God won’t give sinners a break!”
    At the river Al asked me to pray with him. We bowed our heads to the dashboard. Frayed stuffing leaked through a crack in the plastic.
    â€œIt’s me, God. Your servant, Al. I want to ask my favor of the week. Give this young man a ride. Let him wait no longer than five minutes. And one more thing, God. Please bring Armageddon as fast as you can. I beseech you to bring it before I die. Now is fine, Lord. Amen.”
    I left the car, surprised by his humdinger of a prayer. Al reached into a cardboard box and passed me a small jar containing a purebred spider. Breathing holes were punched through the metal lid.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    â€œDon’t trust men who smoke a pipe.”
    He ground the gears of the old three-on-the-tree and lurched along the highway. The white car scudded into the quivering heat lines and disappeared around a bend. I opened the jar in the dusty grass. The spider walked to the edge and poked a leg out. It faced the world for a few seconds before crawling back into the safety of its glass chapel.
    Quite suddenly I was alone with the land, out of the valley and against the river. Shadows darkened the trees as the air cooled. My hackles went higher than a cat’s back. Early crickets sounded ominous, like warning sirens. A muddy feeling in my skin sent me reeling, jerking my head in all directions. Insects were everywhere.
    Exactly five minutes later a rental truck spewed gravel on the shoulder and veered to a stop. The orange door bounced open, disgorging a bearded giant dressed in black. He wore a leather vest over a T-shirt emblazoned with a faded American flag; a towering silhouette with the voice of a rusty rake.
    â€œWhere you headed for, boy?”
    â€œNorth.”
    â€œDrive a truck?”
    At my nod he spun like a soldier and clambered into the cab. I followed. He cursed, gauged my reaction, and cursed again as