The Twin

Those born in historical times often have memories that conflict with the official record. He remembers for example that as a boy he had a brother — a twin perhaps but time had robbed him of the precise details. Yet all the documents that purport to be of a biographical nature neglect to mention that he ever had siblings of any sort.

Laying back on his bed, with the ailment coiling its way around the last embers of his life, he listened as the messenger read from a scroll. “To this scholar, this adopted son of the Empire, whose works in service of the Emperor have been without value — I’m sorry, that should obviously read, invaluable. I’ll continue. Have been invaluable, we bestow the honor of a statue, to be housed in the future Hall of Scholars, which shall be named in his honor. The Emperor has decreed it, and so shall it be.” The messenger bowed twice, then rolled up his scroll and plodded out the door, but not before pilfering a few trinkets from the mantle, as was the habit of his guests; such was the degenerate state of the Empire, that nobody had any respect for the dying. Most notably, the messenger had pocketed a small wooden statue of Isis given to him as a tax payment by an old blind woman of the provinces. He thought of Isis abandoning him here at the end of his life, and he chuckled, which shot a pain across his chest and down his left arm.

The disease wasn’t going to let him rest until it was done with him. He wasn’t going to rest much anyway. Now that his life was over, and he lay in bed a helpless slave to mortality, he regretted that he’d never written his memoirs. Cruel fate had, here at the end of all things, filled his head with words, but had robbed him of the means to dictate them. His hands lay gnarled and useless under the blankets. His aide had been sent off to fight in one of the new Emperor’s futile wars. He was left with only a deaf slave upon whom he could dump his memories.

Above all his memories, above the plaudits he’d received from dignitaries the world over, above the shameful intrigues and malicious subterfuges he’d performed on behalf of the Emperor, above the wisdom he’d gathered from the scholars and priests and holy charlatans of the world, above even the wife and child he’d left behind to become a scholar for the Empire, he thought first and foremest of the twin, that haziest of memories. Like a chimerical fog hiding for decades in the corner of his mind, rising out only at the last moments of his life. When the servant placed a wet cloth upon his brow, the scholar opened his eyes and he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit, like a dove, descending on him. It suddenly all became clear to him. He summoned all his strength, and with his last breath he dictated to his mute servant the chapters of his life he’d thought long lost. With a voice as clear and fresh as a mountain spring, he spoke his tale, beginning with his first memory of the twin. It began on the afternoon that the clay pigeons took flight…

Pillars of the Community

“Look,” he said, “don’t go getting a big head just cuz you’re in the Queen’s favor.”

“Don’t know what you mean, old fruit.”

“That disgustingly smug look on your face, that’s what I’m talking about. You think you’re in like Flynt, but let me tell you something, bucko, you’re just the flavor of the month. I’m the original recipe, the real deal. Enjoy it while it lasts. Cuz once your novelty’s worn out its welcome and you’ve gone stale, she’ll be back to her comfort food.”

“Maybe it’s you who went stale, my friend. Maybe your novelty wore itself out. Maybe you were her rut. I’m giving her something new; meanwhile, you’re still singing those same old kiddy tunes.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to? Do you know who you’re talking to? Cuz I’ll tell you who I’m talking to. I’m talking to nothing. You got nothing on her. You’re like an egg without salt. You’re like a wall without graffiti. You’re just a big blank zero. But me, well, you just gotta look at her and you see me. And you just gotta look at me and you see her. Together, that’s who we are. You ask anyone around town and they’ll tell that me and the Queen are all wound up in one another. It’s in the stars, man, we’re fated to be together, her and I.”

“So what happened? Did the stars take a holiday when you weren’t looking? Maybe fate stepped out for a smoke while you were asleep. Anyway, I know what I know, and I know it’s what the Queen knows, and I’m not making any reservations for the end of the season.”

“Like I said, man, you’re just a flash in the pan. A brief fling. Something for a season. I got memories with her; great memories built up over years, decades even before we knew each other. I know all her sweet spots. I know how to make her tear up, what makes her laugh. All I gotta do is hold my hand out to a squirrel and her heart melts. I mean really, man, what have you got compared to that? Pretty words? I come armed with deeds, and all you can do is flap your beak.”

“You’re right. I arrived in the Community with a severe disadvantage. And you’re also right that I’m a stranger compared to you, an unknown quantity next to your solved equation. But you want to know what I bring? I bring to her a fresh start. You can’t honestly sit there and say your time with her was all ruby red and peaches. You brought a lot of storm clouds to the realm, my man, and you know it. You brought drama; I know all about it, and so does everyone else. You could be a right bastard, you with your wicked temper and pride. So you want to know what I bring? I bring a sense of calm, of peace in mind and body and spirit. I bring to her an openness of heart. An open ear that does not simply dismiss what it doesn’t understand. A partnership of curiosity and faith and trust and understanding and creativity and love. They aren’t just words, my friend. They’re the foundation of something profound and lasting. They aren’t the codiciles of a signed fate. We aren’t waiting for destiny to come to us; we’re writing our own destiny.”

“Ha, and how’s that working out for you? Tell me, have you met her ducklings yet? Some destiny, if she can’t even trust you to be in the same room with her young ones. I’ve been there pal, been there and done that. So what if I can’t remember their names, or if they cringe when I walk in the room. The point is that I’m there, man. That’s trust, man. That’s confidence. Flash in the fucking pan, that’s all you are. A seasonal fling, like an allergy that’ll blow away with the autumn wind. I admit I fucked up in the past. I wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. But that’s the fucking past. I’m in this for the long haul. We don’t need to build a new destiny. We already got the foundation laid down. Wake me when she trusts you enough to be in the same zip code as them. Never fucking happen. You’ll be let go before the background check clears.”

“Now who’s being the smug one? You sound pretty self-assured for someone who’s been repeatedly expelled from the Community. You say much about her ducklings. But I’ll bet you don’t even know their birthdays. Can’t tell me what they like on their burgers, or what flavor of toothpaste they prefer. I mean, you can’t even call them by their proper names. I trust the Queen. When the moment is right, and all the stars are aligned, I shall be a trusted member of the Community, walking with Toby and Henry, inspecting the perimeters, and able to come back and share in the Queen’s bounty.”

“And yet I’ve been there longer than you, because you see, unlike you, I am still a full-fledged member of the Community. There I am, only recently in her living room. She sees how I’ve changed. I don’t run away when the dark times come. She sees that I’m there to take care of her when she’s ill. Look at you, still wearing your Community visitor’s pass. I’ll bet you have to ask where the towels are kept.”

“I admit you’ve got a leg up on me in seniority. But I’m a fast learner. True I have a lot of catching up to do, but I’ve already waded pretty deeply into the Community pool. I have bathed in the Queen’s chamber, slept beside her, showered her with besos day and night. I have conversed with her on couches from dark until daylight. I have trod naked through the palace, leaving curled hairs here and there, that you, my friend, may have accidentally slept in. Together, the Queen and I have moved a futon across carpets and up stairs; and in one epic journey we transported a massive wall into her study, just the two of us. I have broken bread with the Queen on many occasions and in many settings; including her living room and her bed. I and the Queen have ridiculed the pompous and the profane all throughout this miserable cowtown. I have sat with the Queen as she puked all night, and then awakened with her in a strange parking lot. My good man, I have farted in the Queen’s bed. Don’t tell me I’m a mere fling. I have miles to go before I’ve exhausted my journey through the Community. And I intend to have the Queen beside me every step of the way.”

“Impostor!”

“Deadbeat!”

“Interloper!”

“Bandit!”

“Thief!”

“Pig!”

“Weasel!”

“Listen, old man, we’re getting nowhere. I mean, we could continue arguing all night, but what good would it do? We’d just end up back where we started. And the plain fact of the matter is that both of us are in the Community in one way or another, and neither one of us want to leave.”

“Fair enough. But surely you would agree that the Community’s not big enough for the both of us. Clearly, as the one with seniority, I should stay, and you, being a green duck, not yet used to these parts, should do the honorable thing and leave before you get too comfortable. Unless of course you’d rather fight to the death.”

“No, friend, no. We don’t get to decide. This is the Queen’s realm. We serve at her pleasure. And she serves at the pleasure of God. I’m afraid such decisions are out of our hands. We must await her decision. Whether one of us should be expelled. Or else both of us remain, though assigned a role of her choosing. It’s the Queen’s community, and all of us, even you and I, amigo, are just visitors.”

“But…destiny…and fate…”

“Now those are just words, old fruit. For our purposes, the Queen is our fate incarnate. We can woo all we want, but in the end it will be her heart that’ll set things right.”

“Then what do we do till then?”

“Why not sit a spell outside this little city. Don’t mind the filth and decay. Rest your weary feet. Why look, I think I see the rhino man approaching.”

A Common Vulgarian

He walked around slope-headed because he had so many ideas weighing his skull down. Beautiful, unformed, pure thoughts that he could not yet articulate in any cogent fashion. When he spoke all that came out was a stream of gibberish, a warble of spittle; it was like listening to a baritone turkey recite scripture. At first, they thought he was retarded.

Then one day, he opened his mouth and out came a packet of polysyllabic verbosity. What he said didn’t make much sense, but at least it was clearly enunciated. You could say to him, “Oh, that is clearly nonsense, and so is that and that,” instead of “Huh” and “How’s that?” It was decided that he was a misunderstood genius, that his thoughts were untimely, that he himself was ahead of his time. They could not grasp his meaning, and so they labeled him a savant.

One day, during the lunch hour, when all the quality people were mixing and mingling with the commoners, he stood in the middle of a crowd of diners, and he stretched out his arms like Christ on the cross, and he raised his head heavenward and sang. He sang in such dulcet tones, with such mellifluous passion, as if melody had declared war on his throat and won, that everyone dropped their victuals and stared with rapt eyes at the savant deep in song. They were all so enchanted, so tightly bound into his voice, as if they and the song and the singer were inextricably linked into one production. Women swayed and swooned, children sat in slack-jawed, silent awe, grown men, gruff and brusque, wept uncontrollably. The savant sang on, arms still outstretched, as if he were entranced, bound up in some unseen ecstasy. It seemed at that moment that the world was caught up in something that transcended the base, maggoty material existence that defined the lives of so many poor souls doomed to walk upon the earth. Of course, it could not last. The world would not have such a thing. And so it happened that as the savant was hanging on a single sweet soul-burrowing note, he was interrupted by the braying of a single heckler. The complaint of this malingerer was announced to all who had ears. “Good people,” he shouted, “can’t you see what’s happening? My God, you’ve all been enchanted, bedazzled by one of Satan’s servants. It’s perfectly obvious that the man you’ve been admiring is a witch. A witch! You’ve been bewitched!” The people of the town — always willing to follow the loudest voice in the room — turned on the savant, following the lead of the heckler, and denounced their enchanter. They all agreed that he was an enchanting witch, and so they tried to drown him.

Luckily, a louder voice spoke up before they were able to toss him in the river. This voice was very persuasive — and more importantly, it was ear-shatteringly loud. It said, “Stop!” It said a few other things, too, but that one word, shouted at full volume, was enough to convince them of their erroneous ways. And so they let the savant go.

And go he went, all the way to the gates of the town, to the sign that announced the exit. It was a voluntary exit, but all along the way he’d stop on occasion to denounce the townspeople with the most obscene, vulgar epithets. Terrible, vile, murderously hateful denunciations that no one on Earth had ever dared utter before.

The town preacher covered the innocent ears of his grandaughter, and offered to everyone assembled his own summation of the whole scene. “See that,” he said, “all this time we didn’t know what to make of him. Thought he was crazy at first. Then we thought he was some kind of retard. Thought he was a genius, then a songbird, then a witch. Turns out that all along he was just a common vulgarian.”

These Flooded Boulevards

This disease going around town isn’t always evident by sight. Instead, its victims announce their symptoms on signs and shirts and bumper stickers — “I Bleed Orange” — as if they were almost proud of their malady.

It doesn’t stop there. Disease never sleeps. It grows when its death has just been proclaimed. It regenerates those limbs that science has lopped off. And when under assault it’s been known to slip into a disguise and change its name and act like an innocent beyond reproach. You say, “Haven’t I seen you someplace before?” And he throws up his hands with a “Who me?” expression covering his face, leaving you to scratch your head and wonder why he looks so familiar. Before you can unmask his true identity he’s already out the door with your good health tucked in his slimy pocket.

And then there are the two-armed, two-legged beastly bandits skulking down our flooded boulevards. Have you heard him — I mean, the cry he emits when you tug his ponytail? It sounds not unlike the wail of the rebel angels when they were tossed into the pitch. Pity the bandit, then, as you would anyone who’s fallen out of God’s favor, and pray, ye believers, that the same fate does not wrap its tendrils around your non-corporeal neck and drag your soul into the darkness. Come closer, dear sinners, and I’ll whisper a secret in your ear. I’ll tell you how to stay on God’s good side. It’s very simple actually. You have to open your heart to the universal wisdom and hear this secret to salvation: You must change your socks.

The First Breath After Coma

It took her mind—or part of it, at least—and stole her memories and nearly destroyed her entirely. And what it didn’t destroy was left for others to chip away at; those beastly figures came to her bedside armed with chisels, and they laid into the remnants of her mind with a spiteful glee. But she wouldn’t leave. She stayed and suffered their blows in silence; though her tongue was stilled, and her eyes shuttered in comatose night, she felt them digging into her, and heard their voices as they haggled over her flesh. Something tethered her to this world – and though this counter-force left her helpless to confront her torturers, it nonetheless kept her grounded, however tenuously, in the waking world. Then one day, this binding force pulled apart her eyelids, breathed speech into her throat, shocked her muscles back to life, and bubbled up inside her with such an overwhelming force that the only way she could tame it was to release it in one long uncontrollably violent scream.

It is a decade since that day, and though you might not hear it between the calmness of her speech or the mirthful lilt of her laughter, if you listen real closely you just might detect an echo of that first breath after coma.

Where the Rhino-man Dwells.

Where is the Rhino-man that used to dwell ’round these parts? Tell me, does he still shriek like a mandrake when the rain wets his horn?

Well, if you happen to see him, remind him that “no one touches a black man’s radio.” Say it just like that – he’ll know what it means, and who sends him the greeting.

Where are you, Rhino-man? Drinking at the rhino watering hole? No, they wouldn’t have you. They’d take one look at your soft, fleshy hands and say, “Go away, half-breed. This hole’s for rhinos only.”

Or are you composing verses beneath the ill-lit roof of the troubadour’s den? No, they wouldn’t have you, either. “Go away,” they’d say, “you sound like a hillbilly. We want folksingers here.”

Who will have you, Rhino-man?

The last rumor I heard was that you were spotted strutting your stuff across the floor of an international banking convention, and they chased you out because you didn’t have any cash, and, worse still, they said you danced more like a drunken rhino than a sober man, and that just didn’t suit their needs, not at all.

I know the one place I won’t find you is under the grave. If scythe-wielding pride or arrow-throwing hubris could not pierce your rough, unforgiving hide, then weak death would stand no chance of leaking through your plates and corroding your ironclad heart and bringing you down.

Gott help the Rhino-man. Gott bless his blessed horn.

The Ineffable Thing That Crawled Out of the Sewers and Killed Everybody

Around three in the morning he felt a particularly manly urge, the sort of vital and ineluctable urge that distinguishes the real men from the mere males. So he left his recon post outside the building he’d been patrolling, and walked around the block to search for the scratch that would satisfy his itch. The early spring air was brisk and clean, as sterile as it was likely to get before the onset of the dirty humid summer. The streets he walked on were so lifeless that you could hear the crunch of an ant as you trod upon it. Even the hungry cats of the horny neighborhood seemed to have turned in early.

He hadn’t walked long, perhaps a few clicks of the sidewalk around the circular block, before he chanced upon a convenience store—it lit up his path as if it had opened just that night, and just for the purpose of his finding it. As he approached the entrance he instinctively unbuckled the sheath that housed his blade. He reminded himself that there was nothing to be afraid of inside, and as if to reinforce this, he said aloud, with an almost incantatory reverence, “This is a safe place, there is no danger here,” punctuating his chant by re-buckling his sheath. And then the automatic doors opened for him and he stepped through.

The store itself was literally nondescript, nothing at all remarkable about it, or, more precisely, its shelves were so ordinary that his eyes wandered away from them without leaving anything imprinted in his brain’s memory banks. Boxes of various shapes and colors stood next to bottles of various sizes, but they seemed to only exist to draw attention away from themselves and toward the direction of the counter. There behind a bulletproof transparent plate stood a man and woman of indeterminate age or origin—they looked like anyone you might pass on the street, and who you’d perhaps honor with a glance before turning your eyes toward something of greater interest. They gave him an impatient stare, as if they’d been waiting for him for a very long time. The woman leaned over to the man and whispered something to him, and then the man cleared his throat and said, “Well, sir, will that be all?” Then the woman nudged him and he said, “I’m sorry, I meant to say, may I help you, sir?” The old woman nodded and looked relieved.

“I don’t know,” said Adam, “I’ve forgotten why I’ve come in here. I wanted something, but now I can’t remember what.”

The woman’s face suddenly took on a most disconcerted shade and she raised her hand to interrupt the man who was about to speak, and she said, “I think we can help, sir. I think it’s allowed. Here, have these, I believe these are what you wanted.”

She handed Adam a package through a slot in the window. He reached for it, but the woman held on for a few seconds, looking into his eyes with something that was either fear or mild amusement—he couldn’t tell—and only released her grip when the man gently squeezed her shoulder with a trembling hand.

“Thanks, thanks a lot, how much do I owe you?”

“Oh, no, please” said the man, “nothing at all.”

“It’s on the house,” shouted the woman, as if hoping that the whole world would hear her, and she added with a great sigh of relief, “now you may go.” She’d played her part, and so she made a motion with her head in the direction of the door. Adam took the hint and exited. Once outside, he unwrapped the package he’d been given, and held the contents up to the light. Cigars—that’s what the label said, in thick black letters against a plain white background. He removed one and examined it, as if unsure whether the thing was actually what had been advertised. He sniffed it lightly at first, then ran it slowly across his nostrils, inhaling deeply. It certainly had the odor of an unlit cigar, it even felt and looked like a cigar. And yet something seemed off, inauthentic, as if everything that had happened all night, from the first urge that took him away from his station to the walk to the store to the acquisition of the cigar to the walk back to his post, was one set-up after another, all united under one whole set-up. He began to suspect that he was the actor in someone else’s script. But then the thought came to him, Aren’t we all just clay figures in someone’s menagerie? He didn’t know why he thought such a thing, but it felt right; in fact, it felt like the most correct thing he’d ever thought in his life.

When he returned to his post, he settled back into his nook outside the building. Sitting there in the bushes, on a tarp over a hollowed-out area of the earth, he was awakened once again to the purpose of his mission, and all his dissent was drowned in that moment. He unbuckled his blade and sliced away the top of a cigar, and lit it up, raising an acrid fog beneath the tree. And with his manly urge now sated, he leaned back against the tree, under the shadow of the slanted light, and exhaled a great cloud, and waited for the ineffable thing to announce itself.

The Moon Came Down For a Swim

The moon came down for a swim in the lake. Unfortunately, the bastard stayed there for the rest of the night, hidden from those of us who relied on its light to move about in the dark forest. So, instead of trampling through bushes with the ease of experienced hikers we were left to fumble and stumble through the brambles and branches.

It was already so late, and we’d been moving for hours, and our bodies were aching from the distance we’d covered. I wanted to collapse there and sleep in the cold dark – if necessary, hollow out one of my companions and wear the leftover bloody skin for warmth. My bones ached, my muscles burned from overexertion, I couldn’t even feel my toes; indeed, wondered if they were still there, or if the cold mud had frozen them to a brittle composition. Worst of all, the roars of my empty stomach were sure to alert any spies to our position; perhaps, I thought, I should, after hollowing out that choice companion, try to still my hunger pangs with a few gobbles of human sirloin.

Facts and Prose

Yesterday, I read a short item about a woman killed by a hit-and-run driver as she walked along the East Freeway. A nameless, faceless, storyless stranger. Today, though, we learn her name, her age, her home address. Daisy Faye Sowell, 38, from Hemphill; recently moved to the Channelview area. Facts and prose that tell us nothing.

How about this? She is the unsung cousin of famous right-wing economist Thomas Sowell. Years ago she was wiped out financially because of a bad stock tip he gave her. As she tried to put her life together, she moved from job to job, never settling in one place for more than a year, or even a month. Somewhere along the way, she discovered that she had an aptitude for juggling. It probably began when she was fumbling with the condiment bottles when she briefly worked at a diner. She practiced with whatever she could juggle – balls, rocks, sticks, gradually working her way up to more dangerous fare, such as knives and rabid squirrels. She finally worked up the courage to audition for a circus act; she immediately dazzled them with her fantastic feats, particularly the part where she drank a glass of water while simultaneously flipping in one hand a pair of daggers and a pair of sleeping kittens. She was hired on the spot. Life went pretty well for her, there in the circus. The pay was bad, but she was happy. She fell in love with a clown, and they married and had a son. It was all so wonderful, until the day she pinched a nerve in her arm. After that, she was no longer able to juggle, and she fell into a deep depression. Her mood only worsened when her son was killed in a terrible clown car accident; a hit-and-run affair and, worst of all, her husband was the driver. The poor father was so distraught that he committed suicide by allowing himself to be trampled by an elephant – they never could wash away the stain of white face paint from the elephant’s foot.

With the circus having nothing more to offer her but bad memories, Daisy Faye went back to her rambling ways. She found her way back home to Hemphill, and took up with one of her old boyfriends from high school. At this point in their lives, they were both bitter. They took their bitterness out on the world. They turned to criminal activity to pass the time. At first, they indulged in small acts, like littering or loitering or riding a bike on the sidewalk. When they felt confident, they stepped up their campaign to armed robbery. Unfortunately, neither of them had the aptitude for such work. Things went horribly awry that afternoon they tried to implement their plan. Three people were killed, including her boyfriend, and she was sent to prison for manslaughter.

She was by that time at the lowest point in her life. One night, when the lights were out and her cellmate was sleeping, she attempted to hang herself. The loud thud she made when the cord broke and sent her to the ground awoke everyone, and the next day she was mocked for her failure to carry through. She fell deeper into the abyss.

Then one day a traveling ministry visited the prison, and the prisoners, including Daisy Faye, were forced to watch the performance of a dancing, singing, yodeling Passion play. But, then, something happened that was as if God had reached down and shook her with his big finger and sent a heavenly shock of electricity straight into her heart. There on stage, barely visible behind the chorus of tap-dancing inn-keepers and pirouetting Mary and Joseph, was a clown on a tricycle, juggling frankincense, myrrh, and gold. It seemed so bizarrely out of place, maybe even inappropriate, but it spoke to Daisy Faye as nothing else ever had. It was a sign meant only for her. She cried out so loud that the rest of the performance stopped dead and the room went silent. They all turned to look at her, with the tears streaming down her face, and right there on her knees, she raised her hands and pledged her life to Christ.

From there her life perked up, she became a model prisoner and was eventually paroled early – indeed, so noticeably changed was she that some of the petitioners for her release were the family members of the people whose deaths she’d helped cause. She came back into the world with her changed persona, and with God on her side, she found the world a more wonderful place. After her release, she toiled in the same menial jobs she’d had for years, but she was a happier person. She even saved enough money to give her husband and son a proper Christian burial.

It seemed to her that the cycle of fate was turning in her favor again. Out of the blue, she got a job offer for a well-paying clerical job at a chemical plant in Channelview. She was so excited that she packed her things and moved there that night. She stayed in a motel, though the job didn’t start for another month. She used to drive to her new job every day just to look at the plant, plan her best route there, and get to know the locals.

One day, as she made her way up the freeway, she spotted something odd, it looked like bodies floating up into the air. She had to pull over the car and get a better look. As she walked along the median, squinting up into the sky, she saw that they were indeed human bodies, and they were indeed rising up into the heavens. “Oh, rejoice,” she shouted, “He has returned to redeem us all.” Raising her hands and walking on her tiptoes, she tried to fly into that crowd. She didn’t see the oncoming traffic, or the truck that sent her flying, or the other cars that pushed her this way and that when she came back down; nor did she see the truck on the other side of the freeway, the one that was stalled, and had helium bottles in its trailer, and balloon mannequins that the driver was trying desperately to keep penned in. It was indeed the Last Judgement, but it was meant only for her.

Pride & Luck

They say of the hunchback kid that he has a second home. But, wait, stop right there. There must be a better, kinder way of referring to him. Hunchback sounds so antiquated, like retarded or midget or cocksucker. You’d think from his sobriquet that he was the sort of ghoul that hung around church towers, and shouted epithets at the torch-wielding villagers below. But that wasn’t his style, not at all.

Instead of hunchback, let us say that he was exceptionally shouldered – yes, that has a whiff of dignity about it, maybe even pride. Though, he wasn’t a particularly proud type of fellow, you know, running around town pointing at his own shoulder and shouting, “Hey, everybody, check out the freak.” He had a much more relaxed disposition, a chill demeanor to match his simple faith. He carried his pride on his back. That mountain atop his shoulder was another of God’s mysterious blessings.

They’re in awe of him when he walks by, as if saying quietly, “Look, there walks God’s Pride. See how the dust parts with the slide of his foot.”

Well, anyway, that’s good enough. We’ll call him Pride for short. So this boy called Pride has two homes. One he shares with his parents, both of whom work slave hours at the local mega store. At night, when he puts himself to bed, tossing blankets over his hump—excuse me, I meant blessing—he counts until he falls asleep, and if he times it just right, he can reach the exact number when his parents come home from one shift, and are already preparing for another one.

His other home is with his blind friend. Oh, but blind sounds so judgmental, so final. Let’s not say blind, but, rather, say that he is gifted with other-sensory accentuation. Let’s call him something appropriate, to fit his lucky state in life. Let’s call him Luck.

What a pair they make when they’re at play. Heads are craned in their direction. The people stare, no doubt in envy of the divine blessings bestowed on those extraordinary boys. The neighbors look out the window, following their every move, as if to say, “There go Pride and Luck. Never more fortunate boys were born.”