Vernon God Little

We go down some stairs into the lower tract of the building, which is like the bowels, if it's not too rough to say, and end up in a dark, wet kind of corridor with only three cells running off it. The cells have no bars or windows, just these bank-vault kind of doors, with reinforced peepholes.

'If you wuzn't who you wuz, you wun't even be comin down here,' says the guard. 'Only you celebrity killers git to come down here.'

'What's down here?' I ask.

'Think of it as a chapel.'

'The pastor's down here?'

'Pastor Lasalle's down here.' He stops at the last door, and unlocks it with a set of keys.

'You lock the pastor in there?' I ask.

'I lock you in there.'

The guard flicks a switch outside the door, and a pale green light glows into the shadows of the cell. It's empty except for two metal bunk frames that fold out of the wall on each side.

'Siddown. Lasalle be along just now.'

He steps back into the corridor, throwing an eye into the gloom of the stairwell. After a minute you hear clinking and shuffling, and an ole black man appears in a beat-up mechanic's cap, and regular gray shirt and pants. He wears a bemused kind of smile. You sense it's been around awhile.

'Knock when you want out,' the guard tells him, locking the door.

The ole black man unfolds the opposite bunk, and squeaks down onto the bare springs, as if I wasn't here. Then he pulls his cap down low, folds his hands in his lap, and shuts his eyes, real comfortable.

'So – you're a preacher?' I ask.

He doesn't answer. After a minute you hear a gentle wheezing from his nostrils, and see his tongue laze around his mouth. Then his face nods onto his chest. He's asleep. I study him for about six decades, until I get bored of the shadows and the damp, then I slide off the bunk, and step away to knock for the guard.

Lasalle stirs behind me. 'Crusty young outcast,' he says, 'all brave and lonely, older than his years…'

My feet weld to the floor.

'Lopin away to hop another bus outta town.' I turn to see a yellow eye pop open and shine at me. 'Only one bus leaves these parts, son – and you know where it's goin.'

'Excuse me?' I stare at his ole slumped form, watch his lip hang dopey from his jaw.

'Know why you down here with me?' he asks.

'They didn't say.' I sit back down on the opposite bunk, and slouch to see under the shadow of his cap. His eyes glisten through the dark.

'Only one reason, boy. Becausen you ain't ready to die.'

'I guess not,' I say.

'Becausen you spent all these years tryin to figure things out, and in figurin them out you got tangled up worse'n before.'

'How do you know?

'Becausen I'm human.' Lasalle creaks to the edge of his bunk. He takes a big pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, and puts them on. Huge moon eyes swim through the glass. 'How you feel about us humans?'

'Heck, I don't know anymore. Everybody's just yelling their heads off about their rights, and stuff, and saying, "Nice to see you," when they'd rather see you in the river with your neck cut. I know that much.'

'Boy, ain't it the truth,' says Lasalle with a chuckle.

'Ain't it just? Folks lie without even thinking about it, like every day of their lives, "Sir, I woke up with a fever," then they spend the whole rest of their lives telling you not to lie…'

Lasalle shakes his head. 'Amen. Sounds to me like you plain don't want to associate with those people no more, you rather not even be around.'

'You're right there, Pastor.'

'Well,' he says, eyeing up the cell. 'You got your wish.'

That kind of hits me sideways. I sit up.

'What else did you wish for, son? I bet you wished you could shut your mama up once or twice before, I bet you dreamed of quittin home.'

'I guess I did…'

'Presto,' he says, opening out his hands. 'You lookin more and more lucky.'

'But, wait – that ain't the right logic…'

His eyes bore through me, a hardness comes to his voice. 'Ahhh, so you a logical boy. You all strung out on everybody else's lies, and everybody else's habits that you hate, becausen you logical. I bet you can't even tell me a thing you love.'

'Uh…'

'That cos you such a big man, all crusty and independent? Or wait, lemme guess – it's probably cozza you ole lady – I bet she the type of lady makes you feel guilty about the leastest thing, the type who probably gives the same dumb ole cards on you birthday, with puppy-dogs, and steam trains on 'em…'

That's her.'

Lasalle nods, and blows a little air through his lips. 'Boy that woman must be one stupid cunt. Must be the dumbest fuckin snatch-rag that ever roamed this earth, probably is so butt-spastic…'

'Hey, hey - you sure you're a pastor?'

'Boy, she one selfish fuckin piss-flap…'

'Wait, goddammit!'

There's a noise at the door, the peephole darkens. 'Keep it down,' says the guard.

I realize I'm on my feet, with my fists clenched tight. When I look back to Lasalle, he's smiling. 'No love, huh, kid?'

I sit down on the bunk. Velcro maggots crawl up my spine.