Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson

the concrete pavers, spreading it in even coats. A few homeless have bothered to climb the chain-link fences that protect the partitions of dead grass from the public. They lie sprawled on the ground like neglected sculptures, blackened by the elements. I make my way toward the band shell, a scalloped steel structure as rusted as everything else. Mister Pastor always camps next to the stage in an elaborate compound assembled from shopping carts, cardboard, and plastic sheeting. I kick the side to announce my presence and wait.
    The only person nearby is a skeletal old man in a frayed long-coat and stained polka-dot bandana crouched in front of a baby stroller. He makes faces at the child, popping out his yellow dentures with his tongue, and contorting his features into a hideous rictus. The kid somehow remains silent. There’s no parent in sight. This is a typical vista.
    It takes a few minutes for Mister Pastor to appear. He’s decked out in the usual: black knit hat that barely corrals his not-so-natty dreads, mirror sunglasses, and rumpled tan raincoat. Apparently I’ve woken him because he’s launched into a diatribe that isn’t quite under his breath. “Damn it, Jeff,” he mutters. “Why the ofays always bothering the Pastor.”
    â€œSomebody sent this to me,” I say. I lay the cassette in his
massive hand for inspection. He turns it over several times, measuring its heft and testing its tactile properties.
    â€œYou know who it’s from?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œAnd you’re not concerned about that?”
    â€œIt’s a gift,” I say.
    Mister Pastor looks at me incredulous. Like: How stupid can you be? I blankly return his stare: Pretty fucking stupid.
    He shakes his head and trains his gaze back on the tape, probing the thing like it’s some sort of voodoo totem, careful not to disturb its latent powers. “I’d throw this away if I was you,” Mister Pastor says. “Right now.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “I kind of want to hear it first.”
    Mister Pastor purses his lips so hard that his whole face seems to pucker as if what he has to express could barely be contained by all that bunched flesh. “Guess you must be the boss of you,” he says finally. “So what do you need from me?”
    â€œWalkman,” I say. “So I can listen.”
    He sighs and ducks back inside the mouth of his compound. While he rustles through his array of cinched plastic bags and canvas totes, I turn away so I won’t see where he stores his treasures. Etiquette. He reappears with a decrepit-looking walkman, both headphones missing their foam casings. “Plays fine,” he says. “Just can’t fast forward or rewind.”
    I want some privacy so I amble toward the green benches next to the empty dog run. The wind swirls some grimy black condoms and muddy supermarket fliers round my feet. I sit under a clump of bare trees, slide the tape into the player, and place the plastic headphones against my chilly ears. I look closer at the handwriting on the case—the series of curlicues, dashes, odd slants and sudden emphases—and for the first time truly begin to wonder who sent this.
    I press play. It takes about fifteen seconds. The first strums of the acoustic guitar and then the onslaught of rattling drums
and ragged horns all at once. And that voice. Oh my God, that voice. I sit transfixed. By the time the majestic echoing chords of the last song fade, something inside me has permanently shifted. Listening to this music is like being turned inside-out and finding the story of your life written on your inner organs. It’s like having your blood leeched to remind you that you have blood. It’s like—
    The tape ends. I flip it over and play it again. And again. The singer sings with an inhuman urgency. He tells his story running and you can almost hear the clip of hooves in pursuit. He spins