Metrosphere 2004-2005
Residents in Eden
April 7th, 2001
Inside of Maria Durant a million possibilities vie for the chance to be realized. Only one will accomplish this goal. She is unaware of this fierce struggle. She lies in her bed, eyes closed, in the arms of her lover. It is dark and her head lies on his chest. She listens to his slow, steady breathing and it calms her; she moves closer to him. She is aware of every movement of his body; she feels his right leg underneath her leg and how it slightly spasms as his muscles begin to relax along with the rest of him. He is warm against her flesh and caresses her shoulder with slow, soft circular touches. Inside of Maria Durant, the struggle has turned into a microscopic reenactment of the situation that produced it. Two cells collide in an act that is both fusion and fracture; a hundred million others will disappear unrealized-slipping back into pure potential. The information carried in the sperm mixes with the information in the ovum and the process begins: ancient conversations take place in a chemical language; it is the original language in the strictest sense. Inside of Maria Durant is the recreation of a pre-primordial event. Cellular division begins and the most repeated act in the history of time happens again. Just like so many other things happen.
April 7th, 2001:
In Denver, Colorado, Tito Driscoll pulls into a Conoco station to get gas and fill his right front tire with air. It is payday; he has just gotten off work and is headed to the bar to get drunk. Tito hates his job and loves his beer. His job is stifling, boring and unfulfilling. He works at a lumberyard in the office doing data entry. The work isn't hard; most of the time he sits around reading the newspaper or scribbling down ideas he plans to turn into a book one day. He makes enough money to pay his bills and keep him in beer and cigarettes. It is Friday and he wants to escape into the ether of the night.
He stares out onto to the street as he pumps his gas. He watches the people walking in the fading light of dusk. The twilight doesn't transform the street tonight. The homeless are just homeless, the drunks and junkies are just drunks and junkies, the lechers, lechers, whores, whores, ganstas, ganstas, and the hustlers, just hustlers. The cloud of night is devoid of magic, he thinks. It had actually been devoid of magic for the last two years; the escape was only a habit now. He just didn't know what else to do anymore.
He feels something in his head pop right at the temple. A feeling of dread and hopelessness envelops him. A whimper escapes his throat, and a tear slides down his cheek. The gas pump stops but he still holds onto the handle until he feels the gas pouring over his hand. He puts the handle back on the pump, pays, fills his tire, gets in his car and drives.
He drives past the bar, past his apartment, where his girlfriend sits on the couch in a meth-amphetamine delirium waiting for him to get home. He drives until the sun comes up, well past the hour for him to be at work. He drives and doesn't stop until he finds himself in front of The Hotel el Corazon in Gallup, New Mexico.
April 7th, 2001:
In Glendale, Arizona, Karen Hodges wakes up next to her husband Eddie. She lies on her back staring up at the ceiling, slowly and reluctantly slipping out of sleep. She listens to Eddie's breathing. It is hard and raspy, as if he were gasping for his last breath. She closes her eyes tight and turns onto her side. Eddie snorts. She opens her eyes again and stares at herself in the mirrored glass of their closet door. She follows the contours and dips of her body underneath the white comforter. It reminds her of the strip-mined hills she saw in Arkansas when she was a kid.
She stares at her face. The skin under her eyes is darker than she remembers; the skin on her cheeks looser, not much, she thinks, but enough that she noticed. She tries to remember when she started to look different. She tries to remember when she had looked any different from the way she looks now. She thinks she remembers a person she knew years ago. A younger woman. But she isn't quite sure if that woman had ever really existed or if that woman was someone she just wishes she had been.
Eddie rolls over with a grunt; his foot lodges in the small of her back. The muscles in her back tighten. She remembers a younger woman who had been inspired by ideas, who could sit for hours and watch the calm stillness of a lake, who could be transformed by a painting or a poem. Eddie pushes his calloused heel into her butt. She slaps at his feet beneath the comforter. The calloused foot rubs hard against the cellulite of her thighs.
"Goddamn it Eddie move over," she says.
He grunts and slides his foot down her leg. She turns over to move away from his foot and the comforter pulls off of him. She looks at his body. She follows his curves.
"That's funny," she thinks, "that I should think of him as curved now."
She follows his large, soft curves from his neck to his round, soft, curved shoulders. She pokes his right shoulder and makes a face as her finger sinks into his flesh. She pokes his shoulder twice, three times, four times, each time a little harder. She is a little amused by the way his skin springs back like a piece of potato bread. Eddie grunts and rolls over. She watches his stomach roll with him. For a minute she is reminded of a National Geographic episode she has seen.
She sits up, fluffs the pillows behind her back and looks around the room. The first thing she sees is Eddie's pants, forty-two inch waist thirty-four length, draped over the back of the old reclining chair. Eddie's brother had given it to him on their wedding day. She had hated the chair then, but hates it even more now. The fiberglass stuffing is coming out at the seam in the left arm. The leather is worn through in spots and it is discolored and falling apart. She had wanted to throw the thing out ten years ago, but he wouldn't let her because it was still comfortable.
"He never even sits in the damn thing unless it's to pass out after he's been drinking," she thinks.
She looks over at the chest of drawers. Her make-up bottles and lipstick are open, dried out and scattered among his old credit card receipts, toothpicks, snot rags, car keys, wallet and miscellaneous pieces of paper (that she secretly-even unknown to herself-hopes would but don't contain any strange or unknown phone numbers). The drawers are half open with the straps of bras and the frayed elastic of jockey shorts hanging out. Eddie scratches his ass and scoots closer to her. Then something happens inside of Karen Hodges.
She looks down at Eddie as if he was a stranger. A vague fear sweeps over her and she feels as if she was alone in a desert, enclosed in a dark, black box with something black and seething, pulsating and sliding underneath her feet. Something old and unnamable, something outside the realm of human imagination. She slides back down under the comforter and rolls up into a fetal position, clenching her eyes closed tight.
April 7th, 2001:
Five miles off the coast of Jablah, Syria, in the Mediterranean Sea, Al-Sa'id Hejaz sits lounging on the bow of his boat. His nets are cast, the water is calm and the boat drifts lazily. It is a balmy day and the clouds move slowly across the sky like a grazing herd of lazy animals. Al-Sa'id closes his eyes and begins to drift off to sleep.
He is woken by a splash near the boat. Looking over the bow, he can see the circle of waves where something has jumped out of the water. He hopes it is mackerel and his haul will be good today. He turns back over to go to sleep when he hears another splash. He stands up and sees a large black fish shoot about two feet out of the water.
When that one lands another one jumps, close enough that Al-Sa'id can feel the spray. Two, three, four more fish dart out of the water. Soon they are jumping all around the boat and Al-Sa'id begins to get nervous. A fish lands on the bow right at Al-Sa'id's feet. It is shaped like a baseball bat, all black and about three feet long with a sail-like dorsal fin. It has large silver eyes and a mouth full of small pointy teeth. Al-Sa'id has never seen a fish that looked like that before and he has fished these waters for forty years. The fish begins to flop around, making Al-Sa'id nervous, and he kicks it overboard.
More fish begin to jump and another two or three land in the boat. Al-Sa'id looks at the sea and it has turned black with the fish. There are so many of them they are squirming over each other out of the water. Frightened, Al-Sa'id backs away from the bow, closer to the cabin. The boat begins to move with violent jerks, hard enough to make him stumble across the deck. He sees his nets being stretched out. The boat begins bobbing dangerously, the bow leaving the surface of the water. Al-Sa'id manages to crawl across the deck and unhook the net before it could capsize the boat.
As he reaches the railing, he sees several of the fish fly out of the water as if they were thrown. A huge fin, like that of a whale, breaks the water, and for a minute Al-Sa'id thinks he sees a huge set of teeth skim the surface. Jumping up, he stumbles and falls backwards onto the deck. Scooting back with his hands, he rests against the wall of the cabin. His eyes are wide and sweat covers his forehead, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest.
In front of him he sees the something rise up out of the water, the black fish jumping around it like water on a hot skillet. A monstrous, black back with bony ridges and smooth skin glides in front of the boat, at least twelve feet out of the water, then slowly descends back into the depths.
Al-Sa'id sits silent and stares out over the water. He does not move, only his eyes dart back and forth. He does not move even after the swarms of fish dissipate and the sea returns to the calm smoothness it had been before. He only watches his net, tattered and floating out to sea.
April 7th , 2001:
In New York, New York, Benjamin Roy thrusts his arms straight in the air and yells when he hears his name over the P.A. system. His fianc‚, Melanie Powers, throws her arms around his neck, almost knocking him out of his chair. She says something to him but he can't hear her over the cheering from the audience. He grins, kisses her on the forehead, and she holds his face in her hands, smashing his cheeks together hard enough to make his lips pucker. As he stands up to go to the stage, he straightens his bow tie. He smiles, nods and waves to the people in the audience who are standing up and applauding him. Nelson Tyler, Benjamin's co-star, steps out of the crowd and throws his arms around Benjamin. The two embrace for a long moment, and Nelson whispers, "I told you, I knew it was you" into Roy's ear.
"Tony, Tony, Tony baby," Benjamin says, and erupts into laughter. Tyler slaps his shoulder and Roy pats Tyler's face between his hands. He feels the rough hairs on his face and wonders why he hadn't shaved.
"But," Benjamin thinks, "why would he, he knew he wasn't going to get an award anyway, so why not show up in his usual mock casual, pseudo-bohemian style to play-off his disappointment. I know he thought he was going to get a nomination. Never the bride, Nelson, sorry. Guess the best man really will win."
"Now they all know what a real artist is," he thinks. "Two years in a row is not an accident, it is the manifestation of brilliance and greatness." As he steps onto the stairs leading up to the stage he catches sight of Hector Encordio. Hector nods to him and Benjamin stops and gives him two thumbs up.
"Two years in a row I beat you, vato. Keep your reserved dignity for somebody who gives a fuck. Maybe next year, huh? Right." he thought. The escort in the purple gown with red-hair meets him at the stage and walks with him to the podium. He gives her a kiss on the cheek and tells her thank you.
"Her eyes are way too far apart for her face," he thinks.
Jennifer Spenser, the winner of a Tony the previous year for best leading actress in a musical, presents Benjamin with the award. As they hug and exchange pecks on the cheeks, she tells him congratulations.
"I deserve this," he thinks. "Years and years of bull-shit work and no recognition. Congratulations should be in order, baby. I did this. I did this." She moves to walk away, but he pulls her back and puts the award in her hand. He lifts her arm above her head with his and leans into the microphone on the podium.
"Members of the academy, we want to see this lady get another one of these real soon." The audience cheers louder. Jennifer smiles, lowers her eyes and shakes her head. She gives Benjamin another kiss on the cheek, says thank you into the microphone and leaves the stage.
"But, I'm going to keep this one, Jennifer," he says, and raises the bronze sculpture high above his head. The audience laughs and cheers again.
"First I'd like to thank all my peers for their help and support," he says. And again they all cheer.
April 7th, 2001:
In Casper, Wyoming, at the Penrose Retirement Center, Eleanor Harmon watches Winston Munce walking up the path from the garden. He is wearing the same brown trousers he wears all the time pulled up past his navel. He shuffles up the path slow but steady, his socks showing beneath the leg of his pants. The tail of his red, plaid shirt hangs out of his pants in the front. Eleanor smiles. Winston looks up and sees her. He waves and she stands up and waves back.
Eleanor is seventy-seven, but she looks twenty years younger. She had been a dancer all her life and had been married to a photographer. She had moved back to Wyoming, where she was originally from, after her husband died. She was well off and had planned to take up painting until she got in a car accident. An injured hip put her, by her own decision, in Penrose; she had been there for two years before she met Winston.
"You look wonderful," Winston says, taking her hand and holding it gently between his.
"Thank You Winston," she says, placing her free hand over his hands.
They look into each other's eyes for a moment, smiling.
"Here, here sit down, take a seat, it's hot out today, she says, guiding him into the chair next to hers. There is a pitcher of water on a table next to her and she pours them both a glass. They sit in silence for a while looking out over the courtyard.
"There's a new one," she says, pointing to the hummingbird feeder.
"UmmHm," Winston says, nodding his head. He is looking down at his pants, scratching at a cigarette burn on the pocket.
"I made this for you," he says, reaching into his pocket and taking out a small book. He hands it to Eleanor. It is a chapbook. Poems for Eleanor is the title. She looks up from the book at him with a look of surprise and questioning.
"I finished them about a two months ago, I been writin' 'em for about a year now. You know, for you." She stared at him.
"I don't know what to say. Thank you so much. I didn't know you wrote poetry, Winston."
"Not for about forty years now. Well, until now of course. I went an' got that printed up at Egan's. Well what'd' think, you gonna read one?" Eleanor opens the book to the middle and reads. When she finishes she looks at him, he can see that her eyes are wet.
"You like it?"
"Winston, it's ..."
" I love you Eleanor." Tears slide gently down her face, past the corner of her smile.
"I love you too Winston, I do." She leans towards him and he brings his forehead down so she can kiss it.
"I started again cause of you. I ain't wrote anything in years. Didn't feel much. Eleanor, I ain't been too much in my life. Married twice, drank too much at times, divorced twice. I didn't have much of a job, the last one anyway, the one kept the longest. I wasn't much Eleanor; you know what I mean. I don't have much of a relationship with my boy; I don't have much money, Eleanor. But, I'm here and we're both here and you mean so much to me and I know I'm older than you, and I'm not so handsome..."
"Yes, Winston. Yes I will." He stops talking and looks away at the bird feeder. He is silent for a moment, but she can that his eyes are wet. He turns back to her and stares into her eyes. He smiles. She smiles.
"I love you Winston Munce."
April 7th, 2001:
In The Olympic Mountains National Park in Washington, Carlin Leebon sits on the bank of a small stream looking at it empty into a small pond. He sits with his back against a mound of dirt at the base of a huge evergreen.
He had found this niche about forty yards off the trail. He heard the soft gurgling of the stream and followed the sound to the space, a clearing covered in shadow by a ring of evergreens that he could not even see the top of. It was like an outdoor sanctuary, a primeval landscape untouched by time.
The ground is wet and black and covered with light green moss. The dirt yields to his foot when he steps on it. In the middle, surrounded by ferns, is the pond, being fed by the thin stream in a steady, smooth flow. He stands at the bank looking around. The silence of the forest is intensified here. He feels a profound calmness. He takes off his backpack and leans it against an outcropping. As he leans down to the pond to drink from hands, a small silver fish darts into the shadows of the other side of the bank. The water is clear and cold and he feels the coolness wash down his throat and through his body.
He fell asleep a few minutes after he sat down. He dreams that he is walking down a path of golden sand with the Buddha. As they walk, the Buddha talks to him about the Four Noble Truths, the Eight Fold Path and the Secret of the Flower. He had never heard of these things but in his dream he understands them. Then they come upon a beautiful Indian woman sitting on a rock off to the side of the path. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and they stop in front of her.
The Buddha then begins to tell him about the woman. He tells him about every aspect of her life, about her joy, her pain, her sorrow, her dreams, her goodness, her wickedness, everything. Then Carlin asks the woman if all the things the Buddha had said are true. She says yes. She bows her head to the Buddha and he bows back. Carlin and the Buddha continue on the path.
Carlin asks the Buddha how he knew all those things about the woman. The Buddha says to know those types of things you have to be enormous. Then they walk in silence. They come to the shores of a vast lake; the sun is setting and the light reflects off the water in brilliant oranges and yellows. Then he wakes up.
He only slept for about fifteen minutes, but he feels like he had slept a full eight hours. He is refreshed and alert, but he stays at the pond instead of going back to the path. He decides it would be a great place to camp the night. As he unpacks his gear he remembers the dream he had while he was napping. That night, Carlin lights a very small fire and sits against the tree looking at the light flicker in the water. He watches the slow, steady, smooth flow of the stream empty into the pond. The flow is continuous, and even when he drifts off to sleep he can hear its soothing sound.
April 7th, 2001:
In Paradise, California, Noel Redding sits alone in his reclining chair. He is seventy-two years old. His undershirt is stained gray with dried beer and old pizza sauce; his shorts are stained brown in the front from old, dried piss. His skin is yellowish, the color of Dijon mustard, and he smells bad. He sits, fully reclined, in his underwear, and his belly rises up from the chair like an island. He scratches himself constantly: under the folds of his neck, the back of his head, his arms, and legs, groin, everywhere. The room is dark except for the hazy blue glow of the TV. On a table next to the chair, is a gallon bottle of vodka, more than three-quarters empty, a pack of cigarettes, a cracked blue plate with some old unidentifiable food, the TV remote and a mixing bowl half full of spit and blood.
He seems to be asleep; his head flops from side to side. Sometimes he lifts his head and opens his eyes and stares at the TV. His eyes are dark and glazed over and he groans as he lifts his head, then letting it fall to one side. Noel yells out, a deep, thick bellow that makes his jowls shake. A woman from the room next to his slams her fist against the wall.
"Shut-up ya old bastard, die why don't ya!"
A painting of a farmhouse falls off the wall and smashes on the floor. Noel struggles to get out of the chair; he growls and shakes the chair in an effort to get out but is wracked with a bolt of pain across his torso. He falls back limp into the chair and yells out again.
"Shut-up, for Christ-fucking sake, shut-up!" the woman shouts.
Noel sits grimacing, sweating and biting his lower lip. Tears run down his cheeks, and he whimpers under his breath. He closes his eyes. He wonders where his son is. He hadn't seen him in seventeen years. He wonders if his wife is still alive and where she is. He wonders what the weather is like outside, what day it is, what time it is. A moan explodes from his mouth as if he was spitting something out. Angry with himself for letting his mind wander he yells out again. Four loud slams against the wall. Noel yells louder, throws the TV remote at the wall, collapses into a fit of coughing. He grabs the mixing bowl and spits out three globs of thick, ropy blood. He grabs the vodka, drinks, swishes it around his mouth and swallows. Holding his stomach and biting his lip, he reclines back into the chair and closes his eyes.
Four hours later Noel Redding dies.
April 7th, 2001:
In Springfield, Massachusetts, Evan Wong walks into his house. His wife and their kids are gone, out of town visiting her mother. He has the house to himself. He tosses his coat on the couch and surveys the living room. His wife had cleaned up before she left. He smiles and walks into the dining room. There is a note on the table next to a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of scotch.
"Have fun. I know you're going to do it anyway so I bought you these little gifts. Please just smoke on the back porch, it takes forever for the house to air out after you smoke. I made you dinner for a couple of nights; you're going to have to fend for yourself after Wednesday. I left mom's number on the fridge. I'll call you tonight when we get there. Love you. Talk to you soon." At the bottom of the letter scribbled in pencil is a note from his kids that looks like it reads "We love you daddy." He carries the bottle into the kitchen, fixes a glass of ice and pours himself a double shot. Then he goes upstairs and changes his clothes.
He sits outside and smokes a cigarette. The smoke tastes good and the warmth of it mixes with the warmth in his chest from the scotch. He sits with his feet propped up against grill and watches the sun setting. A brilliant display of orange and blue streaks the sky. Evan is content. He does not miss his family at this moment. He loves them; he loves them dearly and would not change anything about his life. But it had been a long time since he had spent any time alone, and he is thoroughly enjoying himself.
He knows he will miss his wife's body next to him tonight, but he will also get to stay up late and read without feeling guilty about keeping the light on. He will miss getting up in the morning and watching the kids rush around the house and the hugs and kisses, the yelling, the spilled cereal in the carpet, but he would be able to sleep late.
He feels there is something intrinsically sublime about being alone. He feels complete with his family, and would feel incomplete without them; but he is complete alone as well, satisfied, happy. A cool breeze begins to blow. Evan takes a sip of his drink, pulls an old blanket over his legs and watches the sky turn into night.
April 7th, 2001:
In Natchez, Mississippi, Zachary Jackson's mother takes him to see Reverend Eli Washington. Reverend Eli is an evangelist and a healer. Zach is ten years old, and handicapped-paralyzed on the entire right side of his body because of a stroke he had during his delivery. He can't speak because his vocal chords are damaged, his right eye is blind and clouded over with white, and he has a cauliflower ear and can't walk.
The reverend walks slowly onto the stage, supported on both sides, his wife on his left and his son on his right. They are all dressed in white; the reverend wears a three-piece tuxedo, his son also and his wife a flowing, lacy evening gown. He steps up to the pulpit and his family sits down on either side of him in chairs. The crowd moves forward.
Seven big men in suits and sunglasses spread out in front of the stage, arms crossed, staring at the crow. The reverend begins to speak. He speaks about the goodness of God, about the power of God, the sins of man and the suffering for the sins of man, about the forgiveness of God. He speaks about the weakness of man and how he must return unto the Lord for salvation. He speaks about how he had sinned and about how he had been saved and then chosen by God to work God's miracles. He tells the people that they must believe in the power of God and the power that works through him. Then he tells the people that if they truly believe in the power of God, and they truly believe that he is God's messenger and servant, then to come to him and let the power of God heal them.
The reverend's son and wife come to his sides and help him down the stairs of the stage. The crowd moves forward in a wave, with shouts and screams of praise and remorse floating above them. Tears run down their faces and people call out to God and the reverend to save them. The big men in the suits make the people form a line.
One of the men hands a microphone to the son, who holds it for the reverend to speak into. The reverend begins to speak in tongues. Mrs. Jackson drops to her knees in front of Zach's wheelchair, holding her son's hands and rocking back and forth, crying and praising God's name.
Her sister walks behind her and gently rubs her shoulders. Suddenly, she points to the reverend. Mrs. Jackson looks up; the reverend is waving them forward. She wheels Zach in front of the reverend and he places his hands upon the boy's head, bowing his own, and begins talking in tongues again. He talks faster and faster and his body starts to shake. Zach begins to shake too. As Mrs. Jackson watches her son, her eyes wide and staring and mouth agape, an ear pops out of the deformed nub on the side of Zach's head like a flower blossoming in the morning.
The milky white film over his eye disappears, and the boy stands up and walks over to his mother and says, " I love you momma." The reverend stops, and one of the men escorts Zach and his family off to one side, in view of the crowd.
The crowd cheers and cries, screaming the name of God. They begin to push forward, and the men in the suits have to hold some of them back. Mrs. Jackson hugs her son and falls to her knees again; she clasps her hands together and holds them up to the sky.
"Thank you Lord, oh Lord Jesus, thank you God." She runs over to the reverend and hugs him tightly. The reverend holds her hands in his and smiles at her. A man in the suit gently pulls her away.
April 7th, 2001:
Fifteen miles southeast of Kuala Terengganu in Malaysia, at the America's Super Sports shoe factory, an eleven-year-old girl works in the factory. No one knows her name except her grandmother. She is a thin girl; you can she her ribs beneath her skin; her teeth are rotting out of her mouth; her full lips are cracked and dry. Her big dark eyes stare out of her face like dull glass orbs. The child works in the shoe factory thirteen to sixteen hours a day to support herself and her grandmother, making the equivalent of about two dollars and seventeen cents a week in American currency. She sews the tongue into tennis shoes all day. Sometimes, more often than not, when the demand is heavy, she and her fellow workers are forced to work even longer hours. They are locked in the factory until the job is complete.
Her supervisor walks up behind her while she works. She does not turn around or move away from her work. He just stands behind her, silently watching; then he taps her on the shoulder. She gets up from her table and follows him into a room. He closes the door and the child begins to undress. She doesn't cry or fight anymore; she knows he'll beat her and then she'll miss work. She just hopes he doesn't call the other men in today and that he is quick. When he's on top of her she thinks about her grandmother.
Her grandmother tells her about when her mother and father were young and they farmed the land. Then the army came and took the land and killed her mother and father and grandfather, because they did not want their land taken and they protested against the army. She told her about how it was good once the factory came, because the army left and quit killing people. The girl works everyday at the shoe factory so that the army won't come back again.
When he finishes, he throws her a dirty rag and tells her to clean up and get back to work. She does as she's told.
April 7th, 2001:
In Wyoming, Delaware, Reverend Elsa Witiless pauses and stares out over her congregation. They stare back, silent and wide-eyed, some with their mouths agape. She knows she's got them right where she wants them. Now it's time to save their souls, she thinks.
"The Devil," she yells out, slamming her fist on the pulpit, startling several children in the front rows and causing a baby to cry. "Satan is the bringer of death, Satan is the taker of life, it's the Devil that took Mr. Hadley here. God wants us to live so that we can worship him and love him. It's the Devil that wants to take us from life from God. It's the Devil that tries to steal our souls after he takes our life. Death is not natural! God is the giver of life, not the taker. Satan killed Mr. Hadley. And may God rest his soul and protect it from Satan.
"I'm angry now, I'm angry at death. Why did Mr. Hadley, here, lying in this coffin, why did Mr. Hadley have to die? He was a good man, I knew him, and you knew him. Why would God take him like he did? No! No! It wasn't God it was the Devil. And now he's got me mad and I hope he's got you mad, cause he's out there bettin' on your souls too, right now, hear me now, I speak the truth! I need you to get mad with me, I need you raise your fist in anger against death, against the Satan himself!"
In front of the pulpit she stands and raises her arms. Several older people stand up in their pews with their arms raised too. Another baby begins to wail and the small children scoot close to their mothers and fathers to hold them. A little boy in the second row, with tears streaking down his face, howls and claws at his grandmother as she stands up with raised hands.
Reverend Elsa yells out, " I renounce you Satan, I renounce your death!" The congregation repeats her words. She sways back and forth on the altar.
"Pray with me children, pray for Mr. Hadley's soul, pray for your children's souls, and pray for your own souls! Pray to God for forgiveness that you may be saved from eternal death!" The little boy in the second row clings to his grandmother's leg, trembling, and her skirt, crumpled up to her thigh, sticks to the child's face from his tears. He moans and shoves his face into her hip.
Reverend Elsa goes back behind her pulpit and falls silent again. She bows her head and whispers into the microphone.
"Please join me now in a silent prayer for the salvation of Mr. Hadley's soul."
April 7th, 2001:
In Brazil, about fifty miles south of Xingu and about fifty miles north of Rio Branco, is a tributary from the Purus River. And along that tributary is a lagoon where an undiscovered species of millipede lives. It has lived there in its present form for over three hundred thousand years, unseen by human eyes. Six hundred miles northeast along the Amazon River is a rubber processing plant. Chemicals from the plant, as yet undiscovered, have seeped into the river and are starting to affect the ecosystem. Before the toxin is discovered it will decimate a species of bird in the region, the night jor, because the toxin will adversely affect the reproductive system in the female black currant grasshopper, which is the main food source for the jors. The toxin will also cause cancer in a species of fern, cause over-population of the dwarf pencil fish, because their main predator, the fresh water dolphin, will decrease in numbers. The toxin will also affect the reproductive organs of the millipede. But something will happen. Like so many other things happen. A gene will mutate in a female that is hatched. It is a gene that will produce an enzyme that will attack the lethal toxin and convert it into nourishment.
A prostitute in Oaxaca Mexico will discover the millipede ten years later in a box of cornflakes.