by Jack Cady
Later, when the control was back, he joined me with swollen eyes that he desperately tried to hide. His mouth was firm, his face and body set in determined lines, and I searched with the certainty of a man who feels the discovery of truth just beneath his fingertips. It was then that the theme burst like a flood in my mind, the sound growing and growing. The brass was walking full. It was strong and proud and victorious.
Jeremiah
At the meeting of two secondary roads, Hell-Fer-Certain Church stands like faded rag-tags left over from a cosmic yard sale. This once quiet country church, with a single bell in the steeple, has virginal white paint decorated with psychedelic shades of pink and orange and green; those colors mixing with hard yellows and blues positive as bullhorns. For a short time in the past this abandoned church was used by a commune.
In the tower beside the cracked bell dangles a loudspeaker that once broadcast rock music, or called faithful flower-folk to seek renunciation of a world too weird for young imaginings. Then the speaker died, insulation burned away, the whole business one gigantic short circuit as sea wind wailed across the wires.
And the vivid paint, itself, faded before the wind and eternal rain that washes this northwest Washington coast. Those of us who once congregated at the church have dispersed, some to cemeteries to doze among worms, some to board rooms of corporations. And some, of course, have stayed in the neighborhood, too inept, or stoned, or unimaginative to leave; although in dark and mist-ridden hours we sometimes recall young dreams.
Then, lately, the church added one more perturbed voice to its long history. A new preacher drifted here from dingy urban streets. In the uncut grass of the front yard a reader-board began carrying messages. It advised passersby to atone, although around here folks show little in the way of serious transgression. They cheat at cards, sometimes, or drive drunk, or sleep with their neighbors’ wives or husbands; and most shoot deer out of season. On the grand scale of things worth atoning, they don’t have much to offer.
But the reader-board insisted that, without atonement, the wages of sin are one-way tickets to a medieval hell, ghastly, complete, and decorated with every anguish imagined by demonic zeal; seas of endless fire, the howl of demons, sacramental violence in the hands of an angry God.
And fire, we find—be it sacramental or not—has become part of our story.
On Sundays the new preacher stood in the doorway. Jeremiah is as faded as the faded paint on his church. His black suit and string tie are frayed, his white shirts are the only white shirts left in the county, and his sod-busting shoe tops are barely brushed by frayed cuffs of pants a bit too short, having been ‘taken up’ a time or two. He needed no loudspeaker or bullhorn as he stood preaching in the wind. When it comes to messages like “Woe Betide” Jeremiah had the appearance, vision, and voice of an old time prophet predicting celestial flames and wails of lost souls—no amplification needed.
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There are, in this valley, some who view Jeremiah and sneer. A few others value Sunday morning services. Many are too busy or drunk to care. Some are outright displeased. Rather than tell all opinions about Jeremiah, or lack of them, a cross-section of comments by some of the valley’s main players seems appropriate:
Mac, skinny, balding, and fiftyish, runs Mac’s Bar and was first to see Jeremiah arrive: “As long as he stays on his side of the road I treasure the jerk. There’s a certain amusement factor.”
Debbie, who is an artist, a barfly, a fading beauty, and thoughtful: “I’ve tried a lot of this-and-that in my time, but I never molested a preacher. Have I been missing something?”
Pop, gray and wiry and always sober, is a small-time pool and poker hustler: “Seems like he works purty hard for blamed little in the collection plate.”
Sarah’s religious beliefs, like her tie-dyed clothes, have followed currents of popular style. Through the years she has embraced Hari Krishna, the Pope, Buddha, Siddhartha, Mohammed, and Karl Jung, while mostly wearing Mother Hubbard styles. “It’s the Lord’s blessing has sent Jeremiah to us. Praise the Lord. Praise him!”
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Not many people live here anymore. One of the secondary roads that meet at the church corner leads up from the sea. At the harbor are abandoned docks and fishing sheds where ghosts drift through fog-ridden afternoons. The buildings are huge, like a town abandoned by giants. Ghosts glide through mist, whisper like voices of mist, fade into mist when approached. We’ve gotten used to them. The ghosts threaten no one, except they seem so sad, the sadness of ghosts.
The other road leads through a flat valley where empty farmhouses lean into sea winds that rumble from the western coast. The houses are ramshackle. Shakes on roofs have blown away, and broken windows welcome the scouring wind. They are, themselves, ghosts; ghost houses that daily remind us of mournful matters; symbols of abandonment and failed plans.
What was once a valley of small dairy farms has been purchased farm-by-farm, and built into one huge corporation farm worked by only a few men. Our farms once had names: River View, Heather Hill, and a dozen others.
Now, cattle are bred, no longer for milk, but as blocks of meat. The valley has become a source of supply for a hamburger kingdom, a franchise that ships product to fast food joints in Seattle, Yokohama, and maybe, even, Beirut. The cattle, well adapted to wind that roughs their heavy coats, grow thick on hormones and valley grass. Then they are trucked to slaughter.
Across the road from Hell-Fer-Certain stands an old post office little larger than a postage stamp. Weathered benches in front of the post office serve loafers, or people waiting for a bus to Seattle. A country store stands next to the post office. Mac’s Bar stands next the store. If you visit the bar on a Saturday or Sunday night you’ll swear this valley holds every old pickup truck in the world. People congregate at the bar to forget they are survivors of a failed place. No one farms anymore. No one fishes.
One important thing happens on Sunday night, and it draws the Sunday crowd. Cattle get restless as headlights and marker lights of trucks appear on two-lane macadam. The trucks, twenty or more, arrive in groups of two or three. They pull possum-belly trailers built like double-deckers so as to haul more beef. The truckers will not load live cattle until Monday morning, but by Sunday night the cattle already know something stinks. The beasts become uneasy. The cattle, bred for meat and not for brains, still have survival instincts. The herds cluster together, each beast jostling toward the middle of the herd where there is an illusion of safety. Bawling carries on the winds. The entire valley fills with sounds of terror.
Folks swear it’s Jeremiah’s preaching riles the cattle, but we know it isn’t so. As trucks roll in, Sunday nights turn into Jeremiah’s busy time. He stands before Hell-Fer-Certain and preaches above the wind. His string tie flutters like a banner, and his white and uncut hair is whirled by wind that carries the bawling of bovine fear.
With no place to go, and a twelve-hour layover, truck drivers drift to the bar and buy rounds. They’re good enough lads, but they have steady employment and that gets resented. They generally come through the doorway of Mac’s bent like fishhooks beneath the flood of prophecy coming from across the road. Jeremiah puts the fear of God in them. Plus, truck driving builds a mighty thirst in a man. It’s that combination causes them to stand so many drinks.
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This, then, is the place we live. It is not the best place, not the worst, but it’s ours; a small and slightly drunken spot on the Lord’s green earth. It was never, until Jeremiah and Mac got into it, a place where anything titanic seemed likely. Then Jeremiah confounded Mac’s hopes. He crossed the road.
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It began on one of those rare August afternoons when mist blows away, sun covers the valley grass, and hides of cattle turn glossy with light. The macadam road dries from wet black to luminous gray. A few early drinkers stay away from Mac’s, vowing not to get fuzzy until the return of ugly weather.
Mac busied himself stocking beer cases behind his po
lished oak bar. Polished mirrors behind the bar reflected a clutter of chairs and tables around a small dance floor. The mirrors pictured colorful beer signs, brushed pool tables, dart boards, and restroom doors that in early afternoons stand open to air out the stench of disinfectant. Either a reflection in the mirrors, or a silhouette in the sun-brightened doorway caused Mac to look up.
“Praise the Lord,” said the silhouette. Then Jeremiah moved out of sunlight and into the shadow of the bar.
“All I needed,” Mac said as if talking to himself, “was . . .” and he squinted at Jeremiah, “this,” and he squinted harder. Mac’s balding dome shone like a small light in the shadowed bar. Although he’s thin, he’s muscular. At the time most of the working muscles were in his jaw. “You’re a bad dream,” Mac told Jeremiah. “You’re the butt end of a bad joke. You’re turnip pie. You’re first cousin to a used-car salesman, and what’s worse, you’re in my bar.”
Jeremiah looked around the joint which stood empty except for Debbie, the artist-barfly. Debbie looked Jeremiah over with her blue and smiling eyes, brushed long hair back with one hand, and gave a practiced and seductive smile that went nowhere; although it would have worked on a truck driver.
“A customer is a customer,” Jeremiah said, and he did not sound particularly righteous. “And it appears that you could use one.” He stepped to the bar like a man with experience. “Soft drink,” he said. “Water chaser.” Seen beneath bar light, Jeremiah turned from a cartoon preacher into a real person. His face looked older than his body. His hair, not silver but white, hung beside wrinkled cheeks, pouchy eyelids, and a mouth that sagged a little on the right side; a mouth that had preached too many adjectives, or else the mouth of a man who had suffered a slight stroke. He looked at Debbie. “A woman as well found as yourself could make a success if she cleaned up her act.” Jeremiah commandeered a barstool, pushed a dollar onto the bar, and sat.
“You want something,” Mac told him. “What?”
“We’ll get to it,” Jeremiah said, “and for your own good I will shortly get to you.” He slowly turned to look over the bar. “It will be a quiet afternoon.” Beyond the windows a beat-up pickup pulled away from the post office. Across the road Hell-Fer-Certain Church stood in faded psychedelic colors.
“I believe in evolution,” Debbie said, her interest suddenly piqued.
“Who doesn’t,” Jeremiah told her, “except that it didn’t produce humans. It only produced Charles Darwin. You may wish to think about that.”
Debbie, thoroughly confused, now found herself thoroughly fascinated. She tried to think.
Mac, on the other hand, was not confused. After all, Mac is a bartender. “You talk like a man who is sane,” he told Jeremiah, “so what’s your hustle?” Mac looked through the front windows at the church. He seemed remembering the loud prophecy, the dogmatic hollering, the Sunday nights of wind and truck engines and sermons. “You don’t talk the way you should.” Mac’s voice sounded lame.
“It’s a problem preachers have,” Jeremiah told him. “The words we use are old, timeworn, water-smooth, and even, sometimes, decapitated. Our traditions are ancient, as are the symbols; crosses and lambs and towers of wrath. Plus, in today’s world the volume on everything has been cranked higher. Would you pay attention to a quietly delivered message?”
Mac hesitated, wiped the counter with a bar rag, and seemed to remember younger days, days when people actually thought that they were thinking. “You just busted your own argument,” Mac said. “I never paid attention before, but I’m hearing you now.”
“In that case,” Jeremiah told him, “we may proceed with your salvation, and possibly my own.” His voice sounded firm, advisory, nearly scolding.
Medieval hells of fire and brimstone, according to Jeremiah, were problematic (“I honor the tradition.”) but Hell, itself, was certain, either in this world or the next. “All versions of hell get boring, because even anguish wears out sooner or later. I care nothing for it.”
Debbie looked at her small glass of chablis, pushed it two or three inches away from her, and sat more sad than confused. Debbie is not a bad artist, and she might have been great. These days she paints cute pictures for sale to tourists. Things happen. Life happens.
“Don’t get me started talkin’.” Mac’s tone of voice said the opposite of his words. Mac used to be a thinker, but few abstractions ever make it to a bar. Bartending causes rust on the brain.
“Which is why my main interest is atonement, thus redemption.” Jeremiah sipped at his soft drink, looked at the label on the can, and gave an honest but crooked grin from his sagging mouth. “This stuff is not exactly sacramental.”
“It’s such a pretty day,” Debbie said, “it’s such a pretty day.” She retrieved her small purse from the bar, walked to the doorway and stood framed in sunlight. Then she stepped into sunlight. She walked away, not briskly, but like one enchanted by a stroll in the sun.
“Handsome woman,” said Jeremiah.
“Lost customer,” said Mac.
“We’ll speak again, and soon,” Jeremiah promised. “Between then and now you may wish to ponder a question. How many differences, if any, are there between a preacher and a bartender.” He stood, gave a backward wave as he walked to the doorway, and stepped into sunlight. His shabby suit and clodhopper shoes made him look like a distinguished bum, or an itinerant living on the bare edge of respectability.
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The fabulous weather did not last. Mist rolled in from the coast. It was followed by rain. Hides of cattle turned glossy, and rain puddled in the churchyard of Hell-Fer-Certain. On next Sunday night, as trucks rolled in, Jeremiah performed like a champion, but with a different message. Anyone who paid the least attention understood that new images entered his calls for atonement. Instead of talking about lambs, he spoke of cattle. When speaking of heaven he no longer pictured streets of gold, but streets of opportunity. The image of the cross gave way to an image of the morning star. Hardly anyone gave two snips about images, but later on we would figure Jeremiah made changes in order to get Mac’s attention.
And through the week, and through the next, it was Mac who changed the most, because (though no one knew it at the time) Mac tried to answer Jeremiah’s question.
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A good bartender is a precious sight, and Mac was always good. His instincts were quick, accurate, nearly catlike. He knew when to be smart-mouthed, when to be glib, and when to be thoughtful. He never lost control of the bar, but now he went beyond control and even directed entertainment.
If bar talk slowed, or the pool tables stood empty, Mac resembled a school teacher introducing new subjects. Instead of baseball, used truck parts, and cattle, we found ourselves cussing and discussing local Indian legends. We talked about the fall of empires, Roman and American. We quibbled over histories of Franklin Roosevelt and Henry Ford. In only two little weeks Mac’s Bar turned into an interesting place to congregate, and not simply a place to get stewed.
Conversation improved but beer-drinking slowed. Mac ran a highly enhanced bar, but made less money. For those who know him well, Mac seemed slightly confused but almost happy. Since no one around here has been really happy for a long, long time, we were confused as well.
Meanwhile, gray day followed gray day and life went on as usual. On the coast, mist cloaked the broken wharves, warehouses, and abandoned fish cannery. Ghosts whispered through mist, nearly indistinguishable from mist; we thought them ghosts of fishermen lost at sea, ghosts of fishing boats long drowned. Thus, from the coast to the fields, memories of work and order and dreams lay as sprawled as wreckage.
Those ghosts of the land, the abandoned houses, leaned before wind and seemed ready not to shriek, but groan. Cattle lined the fences beside the road. As they appeared through mist, the cattle looked ghostly; silvered black hides, pale white faces, bovine stares toward us, and toward the road that would shortly carry them to slaughter.
Then, on a Saturday afternoon when baseball
should have been the topic, Mac looked across the bar, across to Hell-Fer-Certain, and said “What does he mean by atonement?”
“It’s being sorry for screw-ups.” Pop, our local hustler, leaned against the end of the bar nearest the pool tables. As afternoon progressed, and as beer built confidence among customers, one or another booze-hound would challenge Pop to dollar-a-game. Pop would clean the guy’s clock, and his wallet. For the moment, though, Pop was free to talk. He is a short, graying man, usually taciturn.
“It’s more than that,” Debbie said. “I can feel sorry for screw-ups any old time I want.” She sipped at her wine. Her eyes squinched a little, and sorrow entered her voice. “Come to think of it, I usually want. Sorry most days . . . .” She realized she was saying too much. She saw her reflection in the bar mirror, smoothed her hair with one hand, smoothed wrinkles on the sleeve of her blouse with the other.
“It’s recognizing that you’re out of sync with the universe.” Sarah, granny-skirts and all, attends Mac’s Bar on Saturday afternoons. She would be happier in a sewing circle or a book discussion group, but she doesn’t own a sewing machine and we don’t have a library.
“Ninety days for drunk-and-disorderly. That’s atonement.” Pop looked down the bar where sat at least three customers who knew all about doing ninety days. “I rest my case.”
“That’s only punishment,” Debbie whispered. Almost no one heard her.
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Jeremiah next appeared at ten a.m. on a rainy Monday. Truck engines roared as truckers slowed for the intersection of roads, then caught a gear and started building revs. The possum-belly trailers were crowded with living beef standing silent as ghosts, the animals packed together and intimidated; the trucks rolling purgatories for beasts.