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| chris deal |  | 1. name the old man with toothy grin behind the beard, like clouds before the torrent in the midst of holiday and familial celebrations turned and said you're the last of the name. it, he laughed dies with you reciting the litany of those amongst with no male descendants those that do him, my father and if there is no seed planted before the harvest then could there not be such a thing as sheol for me. if hell is other people, then what is heaven? 2. flip monday morning, before dawn, and there's this itch, and my bedroom ceiling opens up like an abyss, like i'm staring up into space, but the stars have all died, and so i can not sleep, and there seems to be several hours to burn, and so I pick up a coin, a morgan eagle, 1878. flip the coin, heads say 'drive'. hit the interstate and the coin says north. when i remember i need to be at work the coin says 'keep driving'. chorizo and eggs and a cup of coffee across the state line. load up on cheap smokes and flip the coin, which says 'go west'. stop for gas and sugar, eat lunch at the first place i come to after three hours of contained wilderness and views one could easily drop off into. the burger is too greasy. filling, though. ask the coin as to whether or not i should turn back, and it tells me again, 'keep on'. for a while there's a good jazz station but it fades to mindless dribble that is weaved through with static, which is much more entertaining than the talk. it gets dark and i stop for a beer, which turns to several more. i sleep it off in my car. keep driving, going by the coin, and i make for the south. several days gone and i'm in mexico, drinking mescal with american expatriates and indigenous workers. in need of money i take whatever i find, having fallen in with a group from chiapas, and we go about looking for work. pale skin tans in the sun and soon you can't tell this gringo from the rest of my friends. i marry a girl from guanajuato, her skin warm, and her hair like the space between stars, but in the right light, there is a red like the setting sun, and we settle, her and I, in durango, where i raise sheep and grow tobacco. the crops are good. we grow old and i teach our children to play guitar and the songs of my youth while i watch them turn into fine young men and women and leave my home, raising their own. my deathbed prayers are said in spanish. my descendants honor my memory, and say i lived a good life, that i was a good man, and that is all i lived for. no, i didn't flip the coin. i overslept, made it to work, went home, had a few beers, went to sleep, and overslept again. | |
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