and “Praise His name!” It goes on and on, the praising and the hollering, my arms up in the air, and I remember again why I’m standing here, why I’m talking. It’s not me. It’s not me, it’s something
using
me, something bigger and brighter and cleaner than I could ever be.
Hallelujah!
“As there is no sanitary hookup here,” Miss Wanda Joy says, all grim, “we will be staying in a motel tonight.”
What she’s really saying is the place where we’ve parked the motor home, sidled up against a used-car lot, isn’t somewhere we can just let our toilet hosepipe dump on the ground, like we’re used to out in the country. Folks would talk.
“The devil’s playground,” Miss Wanda Joy says when she signs for the rooms.
The man behind the counter just smiles; he doesn’t have tooth one, and his skin looks like a field that’s been left fallow, all sunken and punched with holes and stubble.
The rooms are small and damp, but it feels good to get a shower in a tub where your elbows aren’t knocking the walls. Me and Certain Certain bunk in together, and Sugar Tom and Miss Wanda Joy take the room next door. I figure they spend most of the evening reading, holy scripture for her, stories about things like a girl from Russia with X-ray vision for him.
Miss Wanda Joy generally doesn’t like us watching much TV, but the first thing Certain Certain does is grab the remote and flip it on, keeping the volume low, on account of the thin walls.
He skims down to his drawers and socks. Certain Certain’s legs look like they haven’t seen the sun since birth. The slave tag is a hot little square of brownish gold on his chest. He pretty much never takes it off, like it’s some kind of protection for him.
We watch a show where a man gets to pick from twelve different sinful women to marry. He gets to kiss them
all
, sometimes even with the other women looking. They squabble and cuss each other something fierce. Miss Wanda Joy would have an aneurism.
“Not worth spit,” Certain Certain says. “He might as well throw darts. Not one of them gals got the brains the good Lord gave a turnip.”
But I can sure stand looking at them.
We watch a bunch of other stuff we shouldn’t be watching, too. This is how we keep up with things in the outside world. Certain Certain laughs at a cell phone commercial.
“Day is coming, Lightning, people will always know where they are. Satellites, navigators, tracking each and every one of us. But don’t let folks kid you … they lost the true path a
longtime
ago. Ain’t no GPS indicator goin’ locate their tails for them.”
Last thing I remember is Arnold Schwarzenegger toting a casket full of weapons on his shoulder while the army tries to blow him up. Then somewhere Certain Certain must’ve cut out the light, on account of I wake up hours later with a big old blob of moonlight on my belly, coming through a gap in the curtains.
I’ve always liked watching the moon, so I slip out of bed and yank the curtains back—and holler the worst cuss word I’ve ever said.
By the time Certain Certain gets the light switch, I’m scrabbled up against the door, trying to find the knob.
“What is it, boy? What’s got you spooked?” he says, scratchy and fuddle-headed.
“Out there!” I say, shaking my finger at the window. “She—she’s
looking
at us!”
Certain Certain goes over and hauls the drapes all the way open. “Can’t see a damn thing,” he says. “Too bright in here. Cut the lights out.”
I flip the switch on the lamp. “Ain’t nothing,” he says. I dare to look—an empty sidewalk running in both directions and the shiny parking lot, all lit up by a big fat spring moon.
“She was there!” I say, starting to feel a little ridiculous. “I saw her. Her face was pushed up against the glass, looking straight at me, when I opened the curtains….”
I could see her hair brushing her shoulders, her wet eyes, not much more. The thing is, she didn’t move
using
me, something bigger and brighter and cleaner than I could ever be.
Hallelujah!
“As there is no sanitary hookup here,” Miss Wanda Joy says, all grim, “we will be staying in a motel tonight.”
What she’s really saying is the place where we’ve parked the motor home, sidled up against a used-car lot, isn’t somewhere we can just let our toilet hosepipe dump on the ground, like we’re used to out in the country. Folks would talk.
“The devil’s playground,” Miss Wanda Joy says when she signs for the rooms.
The man behind the counter just smiles; he doesn’t have tooth one, and his skin looks like a field that’s been left fallow, all sunken and punched with holes and stubble.
The rooms are small and damp, but it feels good to get a shower in a tub where your elbows aren’t knocking the walls. Me and Certain Certain bunk in together, and Sugar Tom and Miss Wanda Joy take the room next door. I figure they spend most of the evening reading, holy scripture for her, stories about things like a girl from Russia with X-ray vision for him.
Miss Wanda Joy generally doesn’t like us watching much TV, but the first thing Certain Certain does is grab the remote and flip it on, keeping the volume low, on account of the thin walls.
He skims down to his drawers and socks. Certain Certain’s legs look like they haven’t seen the sun since birth. The slave tag is a hot little square of brownish gold on his chest. He pretty much never takes it off, like it’s some kind of protection for him.
We watch a show where a man gets to pick from twelve different sinful women to marry. He gets to kiss them
all
, sometimes even with the other women looking. They squabble and cuss each other something fierce. Miss Wanda Joy would have an aneurism.
“Not worth spit,” Certain Certain says. “He might as well throw darts. Not one of them gals got the brains the good Lord gave a turnip.”
But I can sure stand looking at them.
We watch a bunch of other stuff we shouldn’t be watching, too. This is how we keep up with things in the outside world. Certain Certain laughs at a cell phone commercial.
“Day is coming, Lightning, people will always know where they are. Satellites, navigators, tracking each and every one of us. But don’t let folks kid you … they lost the true path a
longtime
ago. Ain’t no GPS indicator goin’ locate their tails for them.”
Last thing I remember is Arnold Schwarzenegger toting a casket full of weapons on his shoulder while the army tries to blow him up. Then somewhere Certain Certain must’ve cut out the light, on account of I wake up hours later with a big old blob of moonlight on my belly, coming through a gap in the curtains.
I’ve always liked watching the moon, so I slip out of bed and yank the curtains back—and holler the worst cuss word I’ve ever said.
By the time Certain Certain gets the light switch, I’m scrabbled up against the door, trying to find the knob.
“What is it, boy? What’s got you spooked?” he says, scratchy and fuddle-headed.
“Out there!” I say, shaking my finger at the window. “She—she’s
looking
at us!”
Certain Certain goes over and hauls the drapes all the way open. “Can’t see a damn thing,” he says. “Too bright in here. Cut the lights out.”
I flip the switch on the lamp. “Ain’t nothing,” he says. I dare to look—an empty sidewalk running in both directions and the shiny parking lot, all lit up by a big fat spring moon.
“She was there!” I say, starting to feel a little ridiculous. “I saw her. Her face was pushed up against the glass, looking straight at me, when I opened the curtains….”
I could see her hair brushing her shoulders, her wet eyes, not much more. The thing is, she didn’t move
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