Jeremiah, Ohio

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