by Adam Sol
Listen, young man, if you want redemption from your friends, ask your friends. Please tell me we didn’t find each other so that I might ask your friends to redeem you. All right, then. From my god. Whoever that is.
He held up his finger, and the glimmer was back.
The man who knows not his God
is like the man who cannot see his intestine.
Huh?
No one can see it, you dope. But we all know when
it’s upset with us.
He even smiled then, with a preacher’s satisfaction. But when he saw that I wasn’t laughing he cleared his throat and started shouting at the walls.
Pity on the widows and orphans!
Mercy for the sad and alone!
We have here a boy who has broken his father’s window,
and is confused by the silence.
From whom must he seek expiation?
Which local spigot will spout something holy for him
to cleanse himself of sin?
Where is the sound and the slurry?
My neighbor banged once on the wall, so he leaned in close, so that I could smell the anchovies on his breath. He put his hand on my head and closed his eyes.
Don’t worry, my boy. Daddy’s not mad at you.
Maybe it was the beer, but as I lolled off to my frameless bed I thought, Holy shit, I’ve got to hear more of this. Then his head appeared in my doorway, framed in shadow behind the hallway light.
Tomorrow you will drive me to the Outlandish Mall.
We’ll see what you have that’s redeemable.
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
Bruce, fuzz-headed, trundles to the toilet during half-convincing commercials, pot-vodka shimmer all over the room. The swirl of hallway poster art and sticky rented carpet dust only adds to the spell, Beth and Tony behind on the couch, hands loosely mingled on her knee. A majestic voice calls for an end to the plague of plaque, and Bruce is in love with everything — with Tony’s apartment, with television drama as a developing art form open to critical analysis, with Tony’s post-structuralist insights, with Beth’s smart wit, with his life on his own with friends he admires, Beth’s overlong canine teeth, Tony’s hyperbolic glasses. As his gut relieves itself of the evening’s early drinks, he sees the hominess of their cramped quarters with a kind of religious awe: toothpaste and mascara, Clearasil and Tampax all contributing to an ideal of partnership and balance that he had never before understood. And there, on an eyelevel, soap-smeared shelf, is her hairbrush. As he washes his hands, he leans closer, squinting and joyous. He dries, thoroughly, and with a ceremonial grace picks up the object with the central fingers of both hands. Bringing the object closer to his face, he deeply inhales, ecstatic with the lush smell of shampoo, of hair, of something vaguely burnt, of the intimate and the loved. At that moment the door creaks open and Beth’s stunned face appears in the medicine cabinet mirror. Luckily, the words are already tumbling out of her mouth: “You okay? We thought you might have passed out.” But by the end of the sentence, her composure has collapsed, and she backs into the couch, comically gape-mouthed. Tony has something to say about the Seinfeld rerun they are watching, but it is lost in their strange new secret. Bruce returns to his perpendicular love seat, aware of her stare.
JEREMIAH AT THE OUTLET MALL
Even the parking lot is a three day walk across,
where a man named Harold Hillman
has painted his initials around the shadows of the cars.
Behold! Only he has left his mark on this wilderness.
All else is asphalt and fiberglass.
Behold the pyramid of linens!
Behold the bushel of spoons!
Yea, I have not seen such riches since yesterday.
How can we know ourselves in this concrete cookie sheet?
The East is the same as the West.
The North is the same as Sheol.
I care not for your discount clearance sale, says the Lord.
I scoff at your makeshift markdowns.
Show me the hand that wove the fiber
and I will bless you and your auction house.
Introduce me to the underdressed pressers,
and to the boys who stick pins in shirts
while waiting for their overdue mothers.
Who will appease them? Where will they park?
Their lot will not be evenly delineated,
nor will it contain lamppost night lighting,
yet I believe we will see their glory at our feet,
and around our necks,
before this paved plain gives birth to righteousness.
ATHENS HAS BEEN CALLED ONE OF THE TOP TEN MOST HAUNTED PLACES IN AMERICA
Once we got to the mall
I had a decision
to make: to ditch or stick.
I sat down on the curb
while J started to preach,
working up a good sweat
between the minivans.
He was spectacular,
calling and gesturing,
chasing the terrified
shoppers and employees
from the air-conditioned
stores to their baking cars.
Half the time I couldn’t
hear what he was saying,
but when I could I was
drawn to his certainty,
or at least his passion.
Was he really a man
of God? Could he somehow
absolve my sorry self
of whatever had brought
me here in the first place?
It seemed much more likely
than driving a bread van.
When he was finished he
ambled over — surprised,
I think, that I was still there.
I said, Where to next, boss?
He paused for a second,
nodding, then kicked my shoe.
He said, You’ll need to pack
some extra socks and things.
Back at my apartment
I put shirts in a bag
while J ransacked cupboards
for canned goods and dried fruit.
My one concern was for
the truck. It wasn’t mine.
And the poor old clunker
wouldn’t last past Ashland.
LAMENT FOR THE GIRLS OF MT. GILEAD
They are gone over the state line —
to Muncie, to Gary, to Terre Haute.
And their mothers,
who used to play Pete Seeger on phonographs,
and would wonder at wonders,
are bent over kitchen tables now,
cheeks creased by the heels of their hands.
Their summer dresses fray and their teeth clench tight,
for their city has been abandoned by its only hope.
How they sit, solitary,
and refuse to be comforted,
even by the riches
that flicker by on banners and billboards. O!
I have brought my hands to my face
and felt only paper!
I have struck a fist to my knee and could not reflect.
Long ago I was banished from the city on the hill
by the bloated brother of a pleasure boatman,
and yet I still believe in the gold,
and in the passages of brittle fingers.
See how the water tower sways like a palm in a storm!
It is there, inside that iron cavern,
where I shall sleep tonight,
for like it I am hollow and dry with rust.
I am balanced on stilts, and a sneeze
could send me reeling.
Why must I break my brain in this way?
Why must I sing a song of calamity
when I would rather play clarinet for retirees?
Lord, I would give my right ear
for a well-wetted reed.
MODUS OPERANDI
In the beginning,
&nb
sp; in the towns he knew,
he’d have a specific place in mind.
But as we moved east
and further from home
he would start murmuring in the cab
when he’d seen a spot
that needed a good
talking-to. Donut shops, gas stations,
where the loud displays
clashed with the postures
of the women behind the counters.
The boxes of cakes
didn’t last as long
as I thought they would when we left home.
I interpreted
Jeremiah’s rants
as half-politics, half-religion,
but what compelled me
was their warped music,
something necessary and unique.
I would pull over
and just let him go.
In those first weeks it was almost like
I was dropping off
my father for his
regular game of canasta with
his old war buddies —
it was that casual.
After, he’d collect his clothes and hop
back into the truck
humming, still buzzing
with the words, and the response he got.
He’d wipe the spit off,
and we’d ride away
with the laughter and the dismissals
trailing behind us
like a kind of ex-
haust, half-believing we’d done some good.
Occasionally
the police would get
involved in running us out of town,
but usually we
weren’t around long
enough to attract much attention.
Once I got the hang
of his time-table
I’d take the opportunity
to pick up groceries
or gather my notes.
By June I’d filled seven legal pads
full of his speeches
but still didn’t know
what he wanted me to do with them.
At night, by firelight,
he would read his day,
grunting. Sometimes he would scratch things out.
I realize now
that he was forming
his philosophy as we traveled
(or receiving it),
in preparation
for what would happen to him later.
STEPHEN HIBBS AT THE SNELL STREET LUNCHEONETTE
I was halfway through my third helping of all-you-can-eat hashbrowns, tinkering with the idea of saying something stupid to Edith the pug-nosed waitress but knowing I was better off just clattering my fork when I wanted another plateful. Then in he walks like something out of a comic book. I could smell his burnt beard, and the way his hands shook I thought at first he needed a fix. I’ve been there. So I got up to give him a buck for coffee anyway, and he turns to me and says — I’m not fooling here, he says, “My bowels writhe for want of oil.” Call me crazy, but I thought he meant the hashbrowns — they were oily enough — but when I turned to fetch my plate Edith had already cleared it, thinking I was up to pay my check. The man passed me with a belch and said something to the busboy about trimming his sideburns. I think if he had stood on the counter and proclaimed that he was Elvis reincarnated to redeem the world, I would have believed, dropped my keys, and followed him. It wasn’t his prophetic hair, his collapsed sandals, or that look of shock that movies always tell us means a brush with death — it was his hoarse voice, which reminded me of some teacher I must have had when I was young and full of promise. I know I’ve heard that voice before, and I’m sure I’d remember if I heard it again which makes me sorry I paid my tab, over-tipped Edith, and pushed myself through the shatterproof door before he spoke again.
TUTORIAL AT THE CORNER OF WOLFPEN AND 143
Bloated with blisters, Bruce roughly rubs his rump,
curses his cracks and creases, sweatily swears to himself
that folly has foundered him — this trip is trash.
Jeremiah, jaunty and fresh, fingers a follicle
and sniffs the sultry smell of nearby nourishment.
“We work well together! Tomorrow or Tuesday
let’s let loose in bigger, better boroughs.
The more men we meet, the more likely some will listen.”
But Bruce is bitter. “No one even came near
to hear your hollering. They ran across the road
to avoid your vain voice. They didn’t dare
come close in curiosity. They fled like flies!”
“Yes, yes. They yearn, but they’re yellow. I’m tasked to teach them
how to handle honesty in words of wild wonder.
Slowly the message will seep into their masticating minds.
Fear not for the fleeing friend, or even the energetic enemy.
He dismisses and damns, but despite himself, he hears.”
DRIVING PAST A BROKEN DOWN PICKUP FULL OF MIGRANTS LATE FOR WORK IN WILLARD
Hurry, good mechanic!
Jiggle our hope and bleed the cables,
blow on the fanbelt and jump our forgiveness.
These men are needed for cantaloupe,
these women for harvesting peas.
Who will shuck and pod if not these chosen souls?
Who will believe our dreams?
Whose mothers will lay down in dust and wake in paradise?
O, make haste toward Jerusalem, my wandering children.
Make haste and hay.
For behold, we will bear your iniquities,
your rolling r’s and suspect documentation —
Your diligence will deliver you,
or if not you then your children. Or theirs.
Yea, I have seen the meek rise
from cap to collar, from stiff to stamp,
but each hour is a window closing,
and the strawberries are impatient.
So hurry, grease your valves,
seek solace in your neighbor’s hunger.
For lo, the festival season approacheth like a highway patrolman,
and no one can say what sacrifices will be required.
DUE TO LIGHTED ARCHES ON HIGH STREET, COLUMBUS WAS, FOR A TIME, KNOWN AS THE MOST BRILLIANTLY LIT CITY IN THE COUNTRY
We crash into town
via the brewery,
and eventually
find a snazzy bar
full of young lawyers
cutting their canines
at the state level
before opening
private practices.
On CNN is
a report about
the latest killings.
But what upsets J
is how they tune out.
One guy even says,
“Is there a game on?”
A bouncer has been
watching us not drink,
and before J says
more than, “Woe unto
you who eat old cheese
while the pillars sway —”
we’re out on the street.
The looks they give us
as we’re shuffled through
are honestly shocked.
How could anyone
get upset about
how they spend their nights?
Don’t they work hard?
Aren’t they helping
to protect the law
and the Buckeye State
from insurance fraud
and tax evasion?
And from real bad guys
who rape, kill, and steal?
Why shouldn’t they want
a few hours some nights
to knock back a few
beers and think about
something that isn’t
all that important?
It’s not like they can
do a thing about
what is happening
&n
bsp; over there, so what
is the big problem?
I don’t disagree.
On the other hand,
if these “fine young men,
our warriors, our
grand stallions,” don’t care —
well, it’s obvious.
For J, not caring
is the beginning
of the big meltdown.
Outside he’s upset,
but I just drive us
to an empty lot,
unroll sleeping bags,
and count our money,
what’s left of it.
DOOM AGAIN ON U.S. 36
Behold as I walk blistered down this rancid stretch of highway.
Who will believe me in my fury and costume?
Even fencepost blackbirds
turn dismissive shoulders away, barking.
And a lone neon billboard reads ADULT in simple satisfaction.
Am I mad or lost? Have I split open?
For lo, words blast from my mouth before I think them,
and halftimes I scarce believe them myself.
But look at this expanse of corn,
at the brawny tractors loafing in the yards.
Are they not omens to be read? Do they not have
their significances?
And my bleeding feet? My cracked ear? My burned lip?
Do they not refer to the lame, deaf, and dumb
who have been crushed by slogans
since this road began to traverse the river?
By the waters of Muskingum I have wept and spat,
pissed and dreamed.
My home is built on faulty foundations — it will collapse