Mr. Clean

Bernardo Limpio, agent for the Tax, Alcohol, Recreational Sex, and Alien Liaison Bureau leaned forward into the scanning area of the Macrosoft Computer and said one word: “Darjeeling.” The name had recently come up in the ongoing Voynich Manuscript project that he was heading up and he was nervously waiting to see what connections the massive Voynich dbase would provide. He swung around in his office chair and pushed away from the computer desk and over to the only paper filing cabinet he had left. He had kept the cabinet and its contents as a reminder of two things: How things used to be and how long he had been a TARSAL agent. He had started with the old ATF and had been rapidly promoted after Waco where he had operated as an internal agent. When the regime change came in 2010 he had been temporarily demoted to inspecting Kansas Farm Winery operations, a boring, albeit necessary function of the then ATTB. He spun around again as the monitor prompted him: “Please place your face within the Macrosoft scan area for retinal id. Thank you, agent Limpio.” The links to Darjeeling began scrolling up. Usually there would be thousands but in this case only a few hundred popped up, evidence that this particular probe was relatively clean. “I’ll be damned!” Limpio exclaimed as he peeled a banana and put the peeling in a plastic baggy. He was always concerned about the smell of food being detected and took extra precaution to not offend anyone near his cube. “Agent Limpio, please remember that eating is not allowed in the cube area,” the Macrosoft Monitor admonished. “Drat! I forgot about the Smellsense id port on the computer,” he thought and pitched the baggy into his brief snapping the lock shut and hoping that the Smellsensor was not that sensitive. “I was on this guy’s property and actually talked to him about five years ago,” he tried to remember a face with the name but came up blank. And so it was with Darjeeling, a blank face and a blank history. In his history, there were the usual trips abroad and the failed winery operation after the Blight of ’07, but nothing outstanding except for one small reference to the Voynich Manuscript. It seems that Darjeeling had been the only person to crack the Voynich Code and then had more or less disappeared after making the claim publicly. He had become irrelevant after the Code had been deciphered by TARSAL agents working with the Smithsonian Massive Access Computer (SMAC) in 2008. Limpio had been a part of that team and had received agency recognition by being inducted into the Golden Toe Society. He looked at the framed award with the society motto in flowing script across the top: “To fantasize is better than to realize when, in all probability, an event will never take place.” Straightforward, yes, but also true. True to him and true to all of the other GTS members. He was about to close up shop for the day when he noticed one other Voynich related item. It had entered the screen not as a Voynich related link but as a terrorist related link. Limpio queried the Macrosoft: “Relate Darjeeling,Voynich re: terrorist query true? False?” he spoke out loud. “True,” the monitor replied.
Limpio spun back around to the archaic file cabinet and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out a manila file folder: “Voynich Project – 2007” He opened it up to the blue tab marked “Code Breaker Investigation.” As he scanned the hard copy he queried the computer again: “Bring up terrorist link, re: Darjeeling, Voynich.” The Macrosoft screen changed colors from slate gray to a muddled red with the familiar warning and cautionary procedure for viewing sensitive information: Code Z Security Clearance required, enter via keyboard: security code. Approach scan area of screen for facial recognition while speaking the following randomly generated sentence: If I fell in love with you and I promise to be true, would you help me understand? “Who thinks up this shit?” he thought as he placed his face within eight inches of the screen and recited the sentence. He thought it sounded like some song he had once heard. He typed in the password: Wacko-Waco The screen changed to its normal setting and brought up the requested file. There wasn’t much there, just a reference to a Nuke Dimmitis as being involved in an investigation into an extraterrestrial sighting near Junction City, Kansas back in 2006 and a related article on Darjeeling concerning the Voynich Code. One of the code sequences Darjeeling had come up with was concerned with terroirism and he had made a statement to that effect, telling the journalist that there is a difference between terroirism and terrorism. In fact, he stated in the article that the two are totally unrelated and that terrorism had nothing to do with the Voynich Code or VC as he referred to it.
The Macrosoft computer beeped and belched out the command prompt: EAT. Limpio gave the shut down command and put the folder back in the file cabinet. He forgot all about the queries and the manuscript, Darjeeling and Dimmitis, and the Voynich Project as he made his way with the rest of the “cubes” as they were known, down to the lunch area. It was straight up twelve noon. He saw Linda from the next cube aisle over from his and headed her way, hoping to ride the escalator with her. “Hey, Linda, wait up,” he said and did his usual Groucho walk to catch up with her in the hall. He had read one time that Groucho Marx, the 1920’s comedian was actually running when he hunched over and walked that funny type of walk that he did. Limpio thought that was cool and did it all the time, much to the amusement and befuddlement of a lot of the other “cubes.” Linda Marble thought it was stupid. She turned around and looked then turned back around and continued to head for the lunch queue. Limpio kept up with the funny walk two steps past her, looking sideways as he went by. She ignored him. “What a dork,” she thought. Limpio stopped dead in his tracks and waited there, frozen in the funny walk, until she caught up with him. “What’s up Mr. Clean?” Linda liked to call him that because he was so anal about being clean. She held out her hand as if to shake hands, but she knew he wouldn’t touch her hand or anyone else’s. He scowled at her as he pivoted on his heel and ended up behind her, kind of looking over her shoulder. He changed his demeanor when he caught a whiff of her perfume.
“I’ve got some more data on the Voynich Project that you might be interested in.”
“I doubt it, Bernardo, that project is so passé.”
“This has to do with Darjeeling so I just thought I’d fill you in on what I found. How about sharing a lunch cube?”
“No way, Jose,” Linda stepped onto the escalator and moved up so that Limpio couldn’t stand beside her. She didn’t want the other cubists to think she and he were together. Limpio didn’t give up. He pulled up right behind her and kept talking.
“I know where Darjeeling is and how to get in touch with him.” He knew he was pushing the envelope on this one but if he could just have lunch with her it would be worth it. She turned around and looked at him.
“For real?”
“For real. Now let’s have lunch and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“You better not be horkin’ me Limpio.” To her surprise he took her hand. “I said, let’s have lunch, Linda,” and he gave it a squeeze. He looked at her as she pulled away. She turned around and ignored him all the rest of the way to the lunch cube. He followed her and, bolder now, went right in with her into the private lunch cube she had chosen. He was glad when she didn’t dismiss him. It was probably because they wouldn’t be seen as being together in public, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be with her. And she wanted to know about the whereabouts of Stephen Darjeeling.

Dreamland

Nuke woke up from a heavy sleep. The sparse accoutrements of Room 25 of the Dreamland Motel in Junction City floated around as his eyes focused. He knew where he was and he was aware of the infamous historical nature of the exact room he was in. Yes, it was either Nichols or McVeigh who had stayed here on his way to perdition in Oklahoma City. Maybe both of them stayed there, he didn’t know and he didn’t much care, it was just the luck of the draw. He had stayed there many times before on runs to Kansas City and Denver and back. That was back in the old days when he lived about one step away from the Law himself. In all of the time and all of the runs he made, he never got caught and for that he was grateful. Plus, he smuggled a lot of good smoke from folks down in Mexico and he still thought that there wasn’t, or shouldn’t be, anything wrong in doing that. But all of that was behind him now and had been for almost twenty years. Yes, he had gone straight and merely laughed whenever he thought about all he had seen and done in those days. It wasn’t because of religion or salvation that he had changed, even though he had experienced both of those, too, it was more or less growing tired of the scene or growing older and not seeing any point or advantage in doing all of that. The only thing he had kept was his bike and he most likely would never part with that part of his life. In some circles he was known as Cottontop, a name he earned from wearing his doo-rag with the 100% cotton label sticking out on his forehead. Other groups of bikers knew him simply as Nuke. How did he get the name? His dad was a nuclear physicist wannabe, a person who studied nuclear physics in his time off from being a state highway inspector. When Nuke was born his dad was deep into quantum mechanics and exclaimed when he witnessed his son’s birth, “Man, that is really nuclear,” and the moniker stuck.
Nuke had been in the bar the night before, having a few beers and thinking about where he was and what he was about to do. His attention to too much detail was interrupted though as he sat down on the barstool and ordered a Guinness. “Sorry, sir, we don’t have any Guinness,” was the reply from the bartender. He asked for a Michelob. “Sorry, sir, no Michelob either.” Nuke thought a bit. He settled for a Bud Lite.
“Well, you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need,” the voice came from Nuke’s right and from the far end of the bar, floating on the blue haze of smoke that had just come his way. Nuke looked to see who was talking but it was a little too dark and his eyes had not adjusted yet.
“Yeah, that’s true,” Nuke offered and pulled the beer towards him.
“Rolling Stones,” the hazy voice said.
“Yeah, I caught the reference,” Nuke looked down at his beer talking to it more than to the voice. He could tell it was female but that was about all, and Nuke wasn’t interested. He was hoping the voice would just go away.
“You look like a true nature’s child, born to be wild,” Voice spoke again. Nuke didn’t respond and didn’t look. “Steppenwoof,” Voice said. Nuke laughed as he picked up his beer and took a long drink. It was good and cold.
“Steppenwoof?” Nuke emphasized the last syllable.
“Yeah, you know, Born To Be Wild.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, now I got ya.”
“Why don’t you move it on over?” Voice now sounded a bit sultry and a bit more beery.
“George Thorogood?”
“Right on, brothers and sisters, right on!”
“Sorry, I don’t know that one,” Nuke just wanted to be left alone and the bartender was noticing his annoyance.
“Parliament Funkadelic,” Voice boozed.
“Should have known.”
The bartender leaned in toward Nuke. “You see, Annie there speaks only in what I call Rockese. Just about everything she says is a quote from some rock and roll song. Do you want another Bud Lite?”
“Yeah, like I noticed. I’ll have one more.” Nuke picked up his beer and moved down the bar toward Voice so he could get a look at who he was talking to. It was against his feeling of intuition not to, but he did anyway. This had to be one of those lost souls in the world that just wanted somebody to talk to. As he got closer, he let his feeling of compassion for all sentient beings build up inside, he forgot about his own personal feelings and focused on the woman who was now two barstools away. That was close enough, he thought, and he sat down. He looked at her and smiled. Voice sat there in a typical barstool position, legs crossed, elbow on bar, cigarette pointed to the ceiling, head cocked back and blowing smoke. She smiled back. Her Allman Brothers concert shirt had seen better days or maybe this was a special occasion. She had on blue jeans and sneakers and she looked to be middle aged, maybe forty or a little older, and fairly attractive. Now Nuke knew he was in an army town and he figured that this lady could be a hooker. “So, can I buy you a drink?” Nuke held his hand out palm up and moved it out from his body in an arc toward her, kind of like a seated bowing gesture.
“I’m no mistreated, mateless mother, or mistitled prostitute,” Voice swiveled in the bar chair and faced more directly toward Nuke.
“And I’m no misdemeanor outlaw, chased and cheated by pursuit,” He traded back to her line for line of the Dylan tune, Chimes of Freedom. All of a sudden they were on the same wave.
“Well then, who are you, hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo?” Voice picked the ‘Ooo for her next quote.
“When did you see the Allman Brothers?” Nuke was running out of trade-offs and it was getting a little old. He stared directly at her shirt, reading the concert data. Voice just sat there, her mind churning through the millions of lyric sets trying to find an appropriate answer.
“The first time, ever I saw your face.”
Nuke looked at the bartender and drained his beer. “That’s all for me and set one up here for my lady friend.” He pulled some bills out of his jeans pocket and walked toward the cash register. When he turned around to say goodbye, Voice was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished toward the ladies room, leaving her cigarettes and lighter on the bar to mark her spot. Nuke picked up his change.
“She’s really a nice lady, she just has had a pretty rough life,” The bartender wiped the bar and tossed Nuke’s can in the trash.
“God bless her.” Nuke walked out the door and into the Kansas breeze. He felt all right about leaving and not getting too involved in an all-too-typical story of suffering. He found his key and entered Room 25 for some sleep before tomorrow’s ride into Kansas City.
Now it was morning and as he swung his legs out of bed and sat up, he remembered Voice and the odd conversation they had had. “What a world to be stuck in,” he thought, pulling on his jeans and boots, “The poor thing.” Nuke looked out the window without touching the blinds. He looked out to where his bike was and, satisfied it was still there, finished dressing and packing up his things. He didn’t watch much television but had it on to hear the news. The news head laid out the morning news:
“Today marks the tenth anniversary of the bombing of the Murrah Office Building in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. Timothy McVeigh, who stayed in Room 25 at the Dreamland Motel here in Junction City was executed for carrying out the bombing.”
Nuke tossed the key on the nightstand and headed out the door. He was caught short in mid-stride when he saw her standing there. It was Voice and she was standing by his bike, looking at him as he walked toward it. She had on the same Allman Brothers shirt but looked pretty good in the morning sun. Nuke remembered his compassionate side and smiled as he walked up. Voice had a serious look on her face. “What’s up, Miss Annie?” Nuke walked up to the bike and began tying his saddle bag onto the back sissy bar. She looked at him, seemingly surprised that he knew her name. She reached over the bike and grabbed Nuke by the arm. Nuke didn’t pull away, he just looked at her. “Are you ok?” he asked, knowing that she probably wasn’t. She looked at him searching for the right lyric. Suddenly, she pulled a small notebook out of her back pocket and a pencil out from behind her ear. She quickly scribbled on the notebook, ripped off the top page and, pulling Nuke’s arm closer, stuffed the note in his hand. She watched as he read the note and when he had finished and looked up, her eyes pleaded with him waiting for an answer. Nuke shook his head. She grabbed his arm and pleaded some more. “I need a ride to Kansas City,” is what the note said. “I’m not going to Kansas City,” Nuke still shook his head. She grabbed the little notebook and scribbled some more. “Yes, you are and you need my help,” Nuke read the note wondering how in the world she knew he was headed for KC. He pulled slightly away and asked her out loud, “Now what kind of help do you think I need from you?” Out came the notebook. “The manuscript.” Nuke just stood there.
“Please don’t just stand there,” Voice had her voice back with a line from the old Lesley Gore hit.

Nuke called her “Voice” instead of Annie. He looked at her dead seriously. “Voice, I don’t know who you are but if you know about the manuscript, then get on behind me. Maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on.” Nuke straddled the chopper and Voice duffed behind the corner of the motel picking up a satchel bag and, looping the handles over the sissy bar, climbed on behind him. The chopper popped a couple of times then caught up and they were off down the frontage road toward I-70. When they got to the entrance ramp to Eastbound I-70, Nuke pulled off on the shoulder. He turned and looked at her. She was smiling now. She must be ok, he thought. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows as a way of asking if there was anything she wanted to say.
“We’re going to Kansas City, Kansas City here we come.” Voice sang out. Nuke thought to himself, “Yeah, and the ‘crazy little women’ part is sure gonna be true.” Voice punched him on his shoulder.
He turned back around and looked at her. “How’d you know what I was thinking?” He yelled at her over the sound of the chopper and the traffic.
She just looked and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name. But what’s troublin’ you is the nature of my game.” The hair stood up on Nuke’s neck. He didn’t know what else to do but get out into traffic and get to Kansas City as soon as possible.

Slim's Vision

Slim felt real good, in fact he was in ecstasy. He knew where he was and he knew that he was suspended in the air and moving toward the silver disk by some unknown force that seemed to be magnetic, but he wasn’t sure. He was bathed in a pure green light that emanated from the space craft. In his hand was the half-drank bottle of Mickey’s Malt Liquor. He looked ahead at the object hovering in front of him. It was flat and about thirty or forty feet across. He could now tell that it was hexagonal in shape and about two feet thick. In the middle of the hexagon was a smaller hexagon from which a green beam of light emanated down to the ground and up to the sky. As Slim watched, the silver color turned to translucent emerald green and he could see shapes moving around inside. The craft suddenly turned on its edge and Slim was looking directly at the huge hexagon which began expanding in its thickness. It now rested on the green column of light and projected the same column into the sky as far as Slim could see. Inside the column of light were thousands of the little white eight-pointed stars like the one on his arm that kept him from polishing off what he thought might be his last Mick. He didn’t care though, the light that engulfed him soothed him as he floated about five feet off the ground. He could see Rafe off to his left, suspended in mid stride and captured by the same green light. Slim watched as Rafe’s body slowly elevated and turned horizontal to the ground and began to be drawn toward the center hexagon which now had expanded to three or four feet across and had a rippling mercurial liquid appearance to it. Rafe was headed feet first toward this hole, but there was nothing Slim could do about it. He could only watch as his brother and best friend disappeared into the silver liquid. Right before his head went into the hexagon, two of the star lights covered his eyes and then he was gone. Slim now knew he was next and, sure enough, he began to rotate and move toward the craft and whatever fate had befallen Rafe. He didn’t care at all and he was not afraid. He felt so good, he felt so peaceful and calm that he would have thrown away the bottle of beer if he could have. But he couldn’t. He could only watch as he moved closer and closer to the liquid metallic hole. As his feet went in, the sublime feeling of ecstasy overwhelmed him and he gave in totally to whatever it was that was happening. Then two of the star lights appeared in his field of vision and he saw a bright light. When he had gone completely through the hexagonal tunnel his body began to rotate again to an upright position. The bright light gradually faded and he felt his feet touch the earth. He looked at himself and saw that he was all there and seemingly the same as he was before, except that the bottle of beer was gone. Disintegrated he supposed. He still had on his clothes but they looked all clean. He looked over and saw Rafe and his clothes were immaculately clean, too. And Rafe was talking to some girl.
What’s your name?” Slim could hear Rafe plainly ask the young lady.
“I am Star-Brinda.” She looked directly at Rafe as she spoke firmly to him. Now Slim knew that this was no ordinary woman even though she looked human in every respect. As she raised her long slim hands and bared her palms to Rafe, Slim could see the white star in each palm. She wore a green tunic tied with a serpentine gold belt the ends of which were two more of the white, eight-pointed stars. Her hair was the same golden color as her belt and her eyes were emerald green with starpointed pupils. Her complexion was a fair pinkish color that contrasted nicely with the brilliant green of her tunic. She did not wear any shoes and apparently didn’t need any since she appeared to be hovering about six inches off of the surface of the dirt and gravel road. From Slim’s vantage point she presented a look of beauty and gracefulness and he just loved the green color. When she raised her hand Rafe immediately jutted his hand out toward her as if to shake hands. She moved back immediately, “You cannot touch me as I have not yet descended to Earth.”
“Where are you from?” Rafe asked and moved back a little so as not to frighten her even though she most likely would not have been frightened anyway. He watched as she hovered and moved her body toward the East. Her right hand pointed toward the sky and she smiled.
“I am from a star in that direction.” Rafe looked but couldn’t see any star in the daylight. Then suddenly he had a mental picture of the night sky. A greenish star in the constellation of Ares stood out and he knew. His look of puzzlement caused her to smile even more. “When you passed through the portal you were prepared. Now you are able to communicate with me and understand what I am about to tell you.” She turned toward Slim and he began to move slowly toward Rafe. “You, too, have been prepared.” Slim saw the same star map that Rafe had.
“What happened to my beer?” Slim asked. She looked at him sternly.
“You have no need of that drink from this time forward.” Slim was sad for just a moment and then forgot about it.
As Slim moved toward them, Rafe asked, “ Are you by yourself?”
“No, but you cannot see the others just yet. Not until you understand what I am about to tell you,” She repeated and with that she waved her hand in front of her and the three of them were alone on the dirt road in the Kansas sun.

Mickey's Mandala 

Rafe and Slim

“What in the Hell was that?” Slim about broke his neck looking out the sliding back window of the Chevy pickup.
“I don’t know, but the truck just died,” Rafe said as he reached for the ignition, turning the key and cranking the engine as they coasted down the gravel road. The old brown Chevy came to rest at the bottom of the hill and would not start again.
“Time for a cold Mickey’s.” Slim reached into the cooler in the back of the pickup.
“Don’t you ever think about anything other than that junk you call beer? Rafe slapped the dust off of his dungarees with his black cowboy hat.
“Yeah, sex. It’s kind of like you and that stupid black cowboy hat.” Slim twisted the gold cap off of the green beer bottle and walked around to the ditch side of the truck.. He had developed his own way of screwing off the cap in one twist. It took some doing and he probably ran the risk of developing cumulative trauma syndrome in his right wrist from the torturous movement that was required for this removal. Slim had purposely moved to the off side of the truck away from Rafe because he knew what was coming. Sure enough Rafe had picked up a rock and winged it toward Slim, because like Rafe always said, “You can talk about me but don’t talk about my cowboy hat.” Slim dodged the missile and flipped Rafe off.
The black cowboy hat was special. Rafe had gotten it from none other than Bob Dylan at a concert at Lake Tahoe, California in 2001. Dylan took off the hat at the end of the encore performance of All Along The Watchtower and flung it into the crowd. The hat, black with sliver conches braided in leather spun through the air and was tipped by a fan in front of Rafe who had jumped up trying to grab it. It flipped over several times and landed right on Rafe’s head. He wasn’t even looking at the time. He was watching Slim pull another Mickey’s Big Mouth out from under his vest and was just about to slap him up side of the head. In fact, Rafe didn’t even know the hat was on his head until someone took a swipe at it. That was a big mistake. Rafe’s left arm shot out at the incoming hand, striking it right above the wrist. Slim saw what was going on and heard the bone crack. Then he knew they had problems. Rafe started quoting poetry from Lord Byron. Slim knew then that Rafe was out in whatever zone he went to when he went on the offensive instead of the defensive. The way he put it was that it felt like people were violating his fifteen feet of personal space. Then he would start reciting lines from Lord Byron and the shit would hit the fan. There were security guards and people flying everywhere trying to get away from Rafe, the big man who had cleared a wide swath in the crowd at Harrah’s Casino on the very stage where Elvis had made his comeback. When it was all over, Rafe and Slim were headed out the back door, miraculously unscathed and free of the melee that was still going on. They duffed behind the tour buses and almost ran right over Dylan himself. “Thanks for the hat, Bob, Rafe Garcia’s the name.” Dylan got out of the way as the two ran past, plastering himself against the side of the bus. “Don’t mention it boys,” he said as he got on the bus headed for another joint. Rafe had vowed to wear the hat from that time on, but only on trips where something equally as cosmic was going to happen.
This could indeed be the cosmic event of his life that was taking place on the little dirt road outside of Jetmore, Kansas. And here the two of them were with the same black cowboy hat and a green bottle of beer. Not like it was déjà vu or anything of that sort, but the two of them knew something was about to happen. The high pitched whine they heard from behind them caught their attention as they looked at each other and then had just enough time and presence of mind to jump into the road ditch. A lone cock pheasant flushed out of the ditch as they flattened down just like they did when the F-5 tornado hit several years back. Rafe looked up and saw the pheasant disintegrate into nothing. He felt the hair stand up on his arms, not from fright but from what seemed to be a magnetic pull on his entire body. He looked up the ditch and could see that Slim was already levitating above the ditch and was being stood upright a little at a time. Slim had an odd look on his face and was trying to raise the green beer bottle to his lips. Rafe saw what looked like a small white star attach itself to Slim’s arm and prevent him from moving it any closer to his mouth. Was Slim going to be disintegrated like the pheasant? Rafe wasted little time. He jammed the black cowboy hat down on his head and began reciting his favorite Lord Byron poem:

“For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed:
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!"

From: The Destruction of Sennacherib
Lord George Gordon Byron

On his own, Rafe Garcia rose up out of the ditch and, faced in the direction of the light and sound that engulfed the two Kansas men, walked steadily toward he knew not what. What he did know was that what he and Slim were experiencing at that moment would propel them and the rest of the world into a new era.

Jenny and The Preacherman

The preacher’s Toyota Camry chugged along on the backroads from Jetmore to Kinsley. He knew he was going to be late but right now he didn’t really care. He was enjoying the cool ride and the company of Ms. Jenny Linn, singer extraordinaire and who knows what else. He looked at her from time to time. She had her window rolled down and her arm propped up on the sill. She played with her long hair and brushed it out of her eyes as the wind constantly blew it back. He thought he had seen her before at the tavern in Jetmore when he was doing some evangelism outreach. “Look at that dust devil, Jenny, that’s a huge one.” The preacher wanted to start some kind of conversation and figured that was as good as any, and after all, she was the one that wanted to accompany him, he certainly hadn’t asked her being he was a pastor and all. Jenny had already seen the dust devil that seemed to be running parallel with the slow moving car. It reminded her of when she and Darjeeling were down in Zacatecas, Mexico and had the run-in with the federales. She was winding her hair on her index finger and thinking about the Mexican dust devils and Darjeeling. She didn’t reply for a long time, she just looked out the window.
Preachers have a way of knowing when someone is under some emotional stress. And people, for that matter, know that when they are in the company of clergy they can express things that they normally would not discuss, even with close friends or family. Pastor Jack remembered the many times when he, wanting to be away from pastoral duties, would find himself at a bar or dance and ultimately have to just tell the waitress to put on the coffee and have person after person come to him and tell him their problems. He always listened but it had made him a bit jaded or, at least, burned out. He could tell that Jenny was about to launch into whatever it was that was bothering her and so he waited. He waited for five miles, the dust devil had long since turned and headed south, maybe to Mexico. He laughed to himself wondering if it was possible and then realized how dumb that was. He waited some more. She had that blank stare in her pretty eyes that said she was there but really wasn’t. She was detached from her immediate surroundings thinking about whether or not to say anything to this pastor who didn’t know her from Adam. Or Eve for that matter. He really wasn’t prepared for the questions she asked.
“So, Pastor Jack, what is truth?” Jenny didn’t turn her head, didn’t look at him at all, she looked straight ahead, glassy eyed and nonchalant. The Kansas wind whistled around the side mirror of the car, and the dust from the country road settled inside as they bumped along in the countryside. A meadowlark sang and the song came into the car with the dust. She often wondered how it was that you could be going down the road 70 or 80 miles an hour and hear the whole song of a bird or the chirp of a cricket. Pastor Jack showed little reaction as he drove along negotiating the potholes in the road. He thought about his early years in seminary and how he, too, had proposed the same question to his bishop who gave no answer except to expel him to his room. He asked the bishop if a horsehair shirt was required and that earned him even more problems. He had been problematic and recalcitrant, but hadn’t Luther been the same way? He likened himself to Martinus Lutherus in many ways. He fancied himself to be a modern reformer in a church that sorely needed reforming. The rainbow pin on his lapel attested to his liberalism much to the disdain of the presiding bishop. Pastor Jack reached up and pulled off his white clerical collar. The day was starting to heat up in more ways than one. He remembered how the bishop had called him back to his office at seminary and how he had stood there in front of this higher authority with his head up, arrogant in his chastisement and ready for any theological challenge.
“So, Jack, what is truth,” the bishop swiveled in his leather chair to face his library and put his back to the young theologian. Bishop Marks had long known that this one was trouble, if not just troubled, and even though he had compassion for the young man, he knew that this type of theology would not be tolerated in Western Kansas or anywhere else. It was hard enough to place anyone in the small rural towns, let alone a firebrand martyr like Jack. He knew of Jack’s past and the stellar career he forgave to enter the seminary. He knew of his brilliant studies at Northwestern University and his graduate and post-doctoral work in Zen Buddhism. But he wasn’t quite ready or pleased with Jack’s answer.
“The bite of an apple.” The young man turned on his heels and left as the bishop wheeled in his chair shouting that he had not been dismissed. The young monk headed down the hall prepared to pack and head for yet another life.
The little white Toyota skidded and fishtailed as Jack whipped the steering wheel left and right.
“What was that?” Jenny asked as she held on to the door post.
“Prairie rattler,” Jack said.
“Why didn’t you just run over it, are you nuts?”
“Two reasons: One, I don’t kill God’s creatures, and, two, it’s against the law.” He brought the car under control and slowed down, pulling into the wheat field entrance and shutting off the engine. “The bite of an apple.” He looked straight into her eyes until she had to look away.
“What?” She was a little scared now, alone in the country with a Lutheran minister that she barely knew.
“That’s the answer to your question,” He kept looking until she looked back at him, eye to eye. She opened the door and got out, gazing out upon the green winter wheat and breathing in the good country air, flipping her hair and putting her hands on the back of her head, swallowing hard and trying not to tear up. The preacher got out on the other side. He looked back to see the snake’s rattle disappear into the tall ditch grass and he was glad for its being alive and free. He walked to the front of the car, settled back on the dented hood and folded his arms.“I was asked the same question when I was in seminary and I gave the same answer. The bishop didn’t like the answer and I thought that I was going to be dismissed without earning my M. Div. degree,” The preacher elicited each fact point by point, like he was counting them on his fingers. “Do you know how I got out of it?” He smiled and looked at her waiting to see if she had an answer. He knew she didn’t so he continued. “I had to appear before the bishop and four other clergy and present an argument as to why I should be allowed to continue my last year of studies and graduate. So you know what I did?” She shook her head. “I washed their feet.” She knew what he was saying. “I took off my monk’s robe, tightened up my belt, got the water basin and cloth out from where I had put it the night before, and I took off their shoes, each one of them, and I washed their feet.” The tears were running down Jenny’s cheeks now, making tracks in the Kansas dust. She knew the story well. it was one of her favorites. She just didn’t know how to respond. He put his arm around her and gave her a hug. It was a hug of compassion and not one of passion and it made her feel better. She knew he was no threat to her. “Let’s get going, Jenny.” As the two of them got back in the car, they noticed the shiny gleam of metal at the top of the hill. Pastor Jack backed up quickly to get out of the way when he suddenly realized that the shiny metal object that was fast bearing down on them was no car, or farm truck, or tractor, or anything of the sort. Then the engine died and the car stalled right there in the middle of the road. The disc-shaped craft roared over them, spinning the little car around and turning it over on its side. They both screamed but got out of the car unhurt, watching as the aircraft went out of sight on the horizon.