by Gant, Gene
A sober Larry Neal showed up at the offices of Winter and Baden two days later to interview for a part-time accounting clerk position. He got the job. In the fall, he and I would start our junior year in high school. Larry lived at home, of course, where he and his brothers helped their mother care for their ailing father. Larry, Antonio, and I remained good friends, even with Antonio being a college freshman. Saturday afternoons, we played games of H-O-R-S-E and one-on-one at the King Community Center downtown. Sometimes we watched horror movies on Antonio’s home theater system. And sometimes we just sat in silence, keeping each other company while our eyes grew haunted.
Monica called me, as she’d promised that night my besotted brain told me she was a cop out to set me up. We had a few dates. Two weeks into our budding relationship, she admitted that she was a sucker for socially inept guys and that she had approached me out of pity. I told her my truth and waited to see if she could deal with it. She liked me, but physically, I just wasn’t her type.
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. While we weren’t romantically compatible, she became one of my closest friends.
Reverend Vaughn Titus and his church made national news with their antigay rally in California. That did not stop the state from officially enacting the bill of rights for transgendered individuals. Titus and his wife returned to Saint Louis after a two-month stay in Los Angeles, retired from their crusades, and guided the considerable influence of their church toward the establishment of a foundation that would fund homeless shelters across the country.
I got my hands on a copy of Christian Brothers’ student directory and found a listing for Candace Lane. I called her early on a Monday evening. Like Tyree, she had no memory of me. The call must have unnerved her. She asked me to please lose her number.
Willie J. Freeman was buried on Sunday afternoon, June 18. Three days later, police arrested his widow, Ramona Freeman, and charged her with second-degree murder. On June 20, there was a short article in the Commercial Appeal reporting the shooting of a woman, her daughter, and her infant grandson on the porch of their Detroit home. Only the daughter survived. The shooter—a nineteen-year-old named James “T-Bo” Dyson with a history of petty crimes—was in custody.
There was also an article in the paper that day about Cedric Hardy and how he broke his neck on June 19 swerving his motorcycle after a small boy ran into the street. My heart melted at this news. I rode the bus out to the hospital where I met his parents. Cedric was in surgery at the time, but they were very glad I came and asked me to please come back. I returned a week later, this time with a small batch of white carnations I picked up at a Kroger store for five bucks. Cedric was still in ICU and I was only allowed fifteen minutes. He lay in the hospital bed, immobilized by braces, bandages and all kinds of tubing, but he was awake. He stared up at me, clearly surprised by my presence. I showed him the flowers and told him how sorry I was about what happened to him, and a little tear worked its way out of the corner of my right eye. That set off Cedric’s tears. His lips worked around the tubing in his mouth. He couldn’t speak, but I could make out what he was trying to say. He was sorry. He was sorry for what he did to me.
There was still massive starvation across the African continent, but every major news organization ran stories of the prodigious and unexplained growth of food crops in once arid regions of Ethiopia. With the resurgence of spring and lake water, it was speculated that the regions would remain arable for years, positioning the country to not only feed its people but to become a major food exporter. There was no outbreak of civil war over the crops.
I was never able to confirm whether there was a Beatles-loving Ibrahim Sharab living in Saudi Arabia. I searched the loading bay behind the abandoned warehouse off Belz but never found an orb.
For many nights, I lay in bed and tried to convince myself that my memories of resurrection, godhood, and the destruction of humankind were delusions. On some points, it very nearly worked. Despite repeated attempts, I wasn’t able to pluck clothes out of thin air or traverse the skies in a beam of energy. Neither Antonio nor Monica had any memory of a basketball-size machine that could be used to restructure matter and energy.
But I had not made up Tyree Jacks, Candace Lane, the Freemans, or the Grants. There were too many things that spoke of my having manipulated a great power. There is also no other explanation for the fact that I went from being grammatically challenged to a command of the written word that is similar to Antonio’s. That command is what enabled me to produce this account.
It rained nonstop in Memphis from the night of June 16 through the night of July 26. It also rained in Los Angeles during that time. The rain was misty and gray, making the very air seem wistful. My face reddened inexplicably every time I stepped out in it. I prayed more in those five-plus weeks than I had in my entire life, begging for release because I could not shake the feeling of remorse that filled my soul. I couldn’t shake the feeling I had done something awful. Somewhere around day thirty-eight, I stopped asking for absolution and instead sought guidance.
On the night of July 26, I went to bed and dreamed of Antonio. He was sitting at the table in his kitchen, eating shrimp fried rice out of a carton.
He put aside his dinner, looked up at me, and said, “I already told you what to do.” Then he smiled and left the room.
When I woke on the morning of July 27, the sun was shining. My soul was at peace. I wasn’t angry anymore, not at my father, not at Cedric Hardy, not at the cops or anyone else who had ever bullied me. I had forgiven all the wrongs that had been done to me. That day, I became a church of one. I called it the Church of the Unknown God.
I also met a very nice girl that day. It was my last day at Bebe’s Bar-B-Que. She came into the restaurant and winked at me as she paid for her order at the cash register. I liked that, and I liked her. When I finished preparing her order, I came out from the kitchen, introduced myself, and asked her to the movies. Her name was Janice Niter. She was a year older than me, a bit taller than me, but very cute and very feminine. When I picked her up for our date, I went ahead and told her my truth.
“Oh, I can handle that,” she assured me.
All in all, life seemed to unfold the way it should have. We, the supposed masters of this tiny blue planet, plunged right ahead in our fragile but stubborn attempts to impose our will on the world around us. We went on with the struggle to find meaning in our lives. And somewhere in our hearts and minds, in the grass and the wind, in the molten center of our planet and the cold, vast spaces between the stars, is a being who was willing to once again look beyond our conceits and grant us yet another chance.
About the Author
GENE GANT grew up in Memphis, Tennessee, and lives with his family in a quiet little rural community just outside the city.
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Also from GENE GANT
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http://www.harmonyinkpress.com
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Also from HARMONY INK PRESS
http://www.harmonyinkpress.com
Also from HARMONY INK PRESS
http://www.harmonyinkpress.com
Also from HARMONY INK PRESS
http://www.harmonyinkpress.com
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Table of Contents
Title page
Copyright
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
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19
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27
Epilogue
About the Author
Also from Gene Gant
Also from Harmony ink Press