Page 23 - The Myth and the Moment
P. 23

Morning

          “Well,  young  man,  I  do  believe  that  God  would  be  extremely
        pleased to witness you performing a simple act of Christian charity.
        How about asking your father to loan me his tire iron for a couple of
        minutes?”
          Thinking it over. Salvation versus damnation, the eternal dilemma.
        If he brings it and God didn’t really want him to, and I’m really the
        Devil and steal his father’s wrench, well, then, he’s had it. But what if
        I  am  J.C.  himself  in  disguise  as  a  crotchety  old  man,  pleading  for
        mercy? Ah, then he’s missed his big chance, and splash!—into the pit,
        into  the boiling  cauldron  reserved for bad  children  who  turn  away
        blind beggars from their door. He’s going through the index cards in
        his head, searching for a scriptural simile. He frowns. He smiles.
          “No.”
          “Eh? Why not?”
          “My father’s not here. He’s still in church. But he’ll be back any
        minute and your truck is in his way. He has to park in the driveway
        because  our  garage  is  rented  out.  God  helps  the  police  a  lot,  too,
        mister. He can send them out any time to give you a ticket. I’ll go
        pray.”
          For me or for the L.A.P.D.? And off he goes, avoiding the hard
        questions of life, dishing out the hard answers of death. Did I think I
        had the world figured out at his age? Yeah, but I had it wrong. So I
        changed my mind a few times until I caught myself doing it; then I
        learned,  all  right.  That  kid  won’t  change,  and  he  won’t  learn.  No
        cataclysm  can  shake  his  catechism.  Whatever  happens  will  just  be
        reinterpreted  as  preordained,  a  page  in  the  script  he  simply  has  to
        read a little closer. Me? I’ve read enough. Back to work.
          “Ahhh.”
          Guess  I’ll  live.  What’s  another  stiff  back  the  morning  after,  eh?
        Maybe try working it back tighter first to get it moving.
          “Urghh!”
           There we  go! Last  one; leave it  on  but  loose.  Now  get  the  jack
        under the axle. No angle to do this from but on my belly. Can this
        shirt be saved? Oh, Lord, send down your host—or is it hostess?—of
        holy  rollers  and  wringers  guided  by  the  angelic  laundress  of  small-
        screen  fame,  to  take  this  soiled  raiment  and  sanctify,  purify,  and
        bleach it to pure whiteness again! Okay, Nate, now you’re cookin’.
        Up we go, old truck! Did I leave it in gear with the emergency brake

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