Sure enough, over by my car, a man was leaning up against an old motorcycle.
“He’s your one condition,” the customer service woman said as she pointed and handed me the 12-pack of Coronas.
A little more information would be nice, I thought.
“That's it?”
“Unfortunately, that's all I know,” she answered.
Surprisingly, I believed her. She went on to explain the man's promise--that whoever brought the beer back could keep it on one condition, and that he'd explain it from there.
“And he's been saying the same thing every year.”
I put the beer under my arm and smiled toward everyone and nodded a sheepish “thanks.” Quite frankly, I had spent enough time with these people and I mostly had thoughts of turning on my heels to find my wife and how we could escape through some back door.
Problem was, real or not, I couldn't reject this bizarre proposal in good conscience. Especially after eleven years of built-up anticipation.
So, I reluctantly exited through the front door. Alone.
I felt all eyes nearly penetrating the back of my head as I slowly approached him. Somehow I needed this to make sense. Of course, being a guy, I excused it as much ado about nothing. I'd play along, sure, but this was just a crazy biker with too much time on his hands.
And some supermarket employees who may or may not exist.
When I arrived, I could see him looking off into the fading colors of the day. The sun was hanging on a bit longer and it was splashing tinges of orange and foaming purple as it submerged into the horizon.
He must have sensed something because he looked back at me over his shoulder. His smile was tired, but honest.
“I was hoping it was you,” he said quietly. “You've been a long time in coming.”
“Yes, so I hear.”
He turned back toward the sunset, apparently encouraging me to do the same. We let the silence build for a little bit. I don't always do so well with it, you know--the pressure of the quiet--so I broke it.
“I really haven't done anything that spectacular. Just brought some beer back inside is all.”
He stood up off the bike and he was tall enough to cast a shadow over me. “It’s not what you’ve done, but what you will do that interests me the most. You have been chosen.”
Chosen or not, you should know that I was just about done with this surreal little existential dream or portal or whatever it was. But, before I could politely excuse myself with some classic fib, he looked down at the beer and asked if I wanted one, which, absolutely, I did. Time and reality may be hanging in the balance, but this shouldn't stop me from enjoying a Corona.
As he reached for it, he explained that he's not from my town, or any town for that matter, though he visits frequently and can be seen here and there. He's a wanderer, but he's always watching and waiting, especially for this moment.
And then, out of the blue, he asked me what I thought about Jesus.
“Uh.. well.” I cleared my throat. “What do I think about Jesus? That's a pretty random question. Why do you ask?”
“Alight. Better yet,” he switched gears, “who do you think Jesus is?”
It seemed like a trick question. I know who Jesus is. Most everyone knows who Jesus is.
“Is this my one condition? Is there a correct answer to this, and if so, do I get to bring the beer home?”
He had big, strong hands, and he put one on my shoulder. “I don't want you to bring the beer home. I want you to stay right here, under this tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves. I want you to share a Corona with some people; four people, to be exact, one at a time. Three won't be Jesus. One will. It's up to you to figure out who the real one is.”
Ok, so now I was looking at my car, quietly planning yet another escape route should I need bolt in a hurry.
But my wife was still in there.
Damn.
I looked down at the freckles on the inside of my left knee, you know, the ones that form a constellation which is almost identical to the Big Dipper? Was I really chosen? Somehow they had started this whole thing and, suffice it to say, I was getting a little freaked out. Who wouldn't be?
Still, as previously mentioned, this wasn't just any ordinary beer.
“So, what do you think?” he asked.
He dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a bottle opener. He flipped off the cap with one smooth motion and he handed the Corona to me, and it felt good and cold. He tossed the opener to me so I could use it on the next one, boldly presuming that there would be a next one.
None of this was real; so, I guess I could give it a shot.
“Sure, what the hell,” I told him.
I took a long, well deserved sip as he explained that he'd be leaving and right around the time his engine stopped echoing in my ears, the first candidate would arrive.
So, I sat down and watched him go. The last bit of purple on the horizon smoothed into gray as he rode off, and with it, the low rumble of his bike slowly faded to silence.
And then, like clockwork, there he was. Or at least I thought it was him. He looked an awful lot like Jesus as he was walking closer.
But, then again, I suppose anything can happen over a cold Corona.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Chapter 19 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 2
More people started to gather as the customer service woman explained how all of this began.
“Twelve years ago, a man came into the store. He was an unassuming biker who was traveling through our town, and he laid out specific instructions as to what we were to do. He gave us some money to buy the Coronas the first year, and then he would return the next year to do it all over again. Unfortunately, this became a tradition. We had no way to reach him, but he would always come back, and with each passing year he somehow kept that gleam in his eye, promising us that one day, someone would be honest enough to bring the beer back in.”
The sun was beginning to set behind her and so I was having a little trouble making out the features of her face. I had no idea where my wife was; she should have finished long ago and be very worried, or at the very least, see me up front with all of these people. This story was so strange and surreal that I had to be caught between waking and sleeping.
Maybe I was caught in one of those moments that didn't respect the boundaries of time.
The woman continued on and told me that all of the store employees knew of this tale, one that grew with mystery each year, but they’d been extremely careful not to let it slip out into town for fear of tainting the man’s plan.
“He requested that we do it the same way and at the same time each year, and just like clockwork, we'd always hear the low rumble of his motorcycle afterward. He must watch from a distance, because for eleven years now we’ve seen him slowly circle the parking lot and then ride away.”
So I had to ask. “Well, where is he now?”
They all turned around in unison and pointed toward the tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves.
“He’s outside waiting for you.”
“Twelve years ago, a man came into the store. He was an unassuming biker who was traveling through our town, and he laid out specific instructions as to what we were to do. He gave us some money to buy the Coronas the first year, and then he would return the next year to do it all over again. Unfortunately, this became a tradition. We had no way to reach him, but he would always come back, and with each passing year he somehow kept that gleam in his eye, promising us that one day, someone would be honest enough to bring the beer back in.”
The sun was beginning to set behind her and so I was having a little trouble making out the features of her face. I had no idea where my wife was; she should have finished long ago and be very worried, or at the very least, see me up front with all of these people. This story was so strange and surreal that I had to be caught between waking and sleeping.
Maybe I was caught in one of those moments that didn't respect the boundaries of time.
The woman continued on and told me that all of the store employees knew of this tale, one that grew with mystery each year, but they’d been extremely careful not to let it slip out into town for fear of tainting the man’s plan.
“He requested that we do it the same way and at the same time each year, and just like clockwork, we'd always hear the low rumble of his motorcycle afterward. He must watch from a distance, because for eleven years now we’ve seen him slowly circle the parking lot and then ride away.”
So I had to ask. “Well, where is he now?”
They all turned around in unison and pointed toward the tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves.
“He’s outside waiting for you.”
Monday, June 18, 2007
Chapter 18 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 1
I have a series of freckles that are almost identical to the Big Dipper. They’re on my left knee and I've often wondered if this is a sign, like maybe I’m special or chosen or something stupid like that.
Anyhow, whatever the case may be, I’m pretty proud of my constellation and so the other day I was admiring it while parked under a tree with narrow branches and wide leaves. It was a cool spot in the shade and I thought it quite nice to be there, because it was very hot and I had somehow found it in the midst of an otherwise treeless parking lot.
It was like an oasis.
Various others were coming and going and entering and exiting the supermarket while I waited for my best friend and lover and wife (all wrapped up in one person) to emerge. I wasn't sure what she went in for, but really, it didn’t matter.
I thought that the shade actually had texture on my skin, like it was powdery, if that's even possible. My eyes were getting heavy but before I drifted away completely, I glanced over at the line of shopping carts that were haphazardly crashed into each other and one of them had some beer in the bottom shelf by the wheels. Not just any beer, though; it was a 12-pack of Coronas, bottles of course, because they don’t do cans. At least I don’t think they do.
So, I got out of the car and I walked over and hunched down to look at the beer. They were cold, because the bottles were sweating and I wanted one, even without a lime, though one with a lime would have been a nice bonus.
I waited and turned my head and then my body around in a couple circles, like I was on a caper, checking to see if anyone was coming back for it. Certainly someone would come back. Maybe not for warm Budweisers, but definitely for cold Coronas.
After a few minutes of this, no one came, so I took the booty from the bottom of the cart and my gut was telling me to stash 'em in the trunk of my car, but instead I took them inside. I walked past the pleasant greeter and sidled up to the customer service desk.
The woman behind the counter asked why I was returning the beer. Was there something wrong and did I have a receipt? I smiled at her smugly because I knew I was doing the honorable thing.
“I’m not returning it,” I said. “I found it.”
She looked down at the Coronas.
“You found them. There’s more than one in there, so you found them.”
I thought right then and there that I also found something else: that the customer service desk woman was a smart ass.
“Alright, I found them,” I corrected myself with a glare that wasn’t very nice.
“Where?” she asked.
“In your parking lot. Under a cart. Can I keep them?”
She glared back at me.
“What, like a reward?”
Oh, she was definitely a smart ass.
“Yes, like a reward,” I replied. Even as I said it, I knew I didn't really deserve a reward. Maybe they could give me a coupon for being honest, but I shouldn't get the whole 12-pack.
Nevertheless, she left and went through some back door and trusted me not to have second thoughts and bolt with the cold beer staring at me from the counter. I thought maybe she was checking with a manager about what to do.
I waited for a long time and all the while thought that, really, this shouldn’t have been that difficult. She could have politely refused me, taken the beer and held it behind the counter for some woman to eventually come back in with a receipt (of course it would be a woman) and she'd be panting and frazzled because, when she got home, she'd find her limes but not her Coronas.
And all she wanted was a cold Corona with a sliver of lime.
(I say all of that not because women are forgetful, but because it seems that only women drink Coronas. And me, a guy, who happens to also like them, as in plural.)
Oddly enough, though, that’s not what happened when the customer service woman returned. She came out and she was smiling.
And then she said I could keep the beer.
“I can keep the beer? Really?”
“Yes. On one condition.”
She kept smiling and more people came out from behind, and they were smiling too, and some started clapping. One woman took a picture and I thought that maybe I was dreaming. Then the smart ass explained that each year, they leave a 12-pack of Coronas in the bottom of a cart. They’ve done it for eleven years and for eleven years they’ve watched a person discover the beer, look around the lot, and then take off with it. This is their twelfth attempt and they’ve been waiting all of this time for the one person who would be honest.
And that one person was me.
Then she said, “You must be special or maybe you’re chosen or something stupid like that.”
"Maybe I am.” I thought about telling her that I have a replica of a well known constellation on my knee, but then I assumed she’d probably make fun of me. So I didn't.
Anyhow, there was a strange pause and silence and everyone was staring at me so I looked over my shoulder to see if this was a joke or if maybe even people like me can get punk'd. I reached down and started pinching my Big Dipper to wake up, you know, just in case I really had fallen asleep under the narrow branches with the wide leaves.
But nothing happened. This was real, I think, or at least I haven't woken up yet.
So, I informed her and the small crowd of supermarket employees that I was up for the challenge, I suppose, but obviously needed to know what the one condition was.
As soon as she started talking, I thought that maybe I should have followed my gut and put the abandoned beer in my trunk.
Anyhow, whatever the case may be, I’m pretty proud of my constellation and so the other day I was admiring it while parked under a tree with narrow branches and wide leaves. It was a cool spot in the shade and I thought it quite nice to be there, because it was very hot and I had somehow found it in the midst of an otherwise treeless parking lot.
It was like an oasis.
Various others were coming and going and entering and exiting the supermarket while I waited for my best friend and lover and wife (all wrapped up in one person) to emerge. I wasn't sure what she went in for, but really, it didn’t matter.
I thought that the shade actually had texture on my skin, like it was powdery, if that's even possible. My eyes were getting heavy but before I drifted away completely, I glanced over at the line of shopping carts that were haphazardly crashed into each other and one of them had some beer in the bottom shelf by the wheels. Not just any beer, though; it was a 12-pack of Coronas, bottles of course, because they don’t do cans. At least I don’t think they do.
So, I got out of the car and I walked over and hunched down to look at the beer. They were cold, because the bottles were sweating and I wanted one, even without a lime, though one with a lime would have been a nice bonus.
I waited and turned my head and then my body around in a couple circles, like I was on a caper, checking to see if anyone was coming back for it. Certainly someone would come back. Maybe not for warm Budweisers, but definitely for cold Coronas.
After a few minutes of this, no one came, so I took the booty from the bottom of the cart and my gut was telling me to stash 'em in the trunk of my car, but instead I took them inside. I walked past the pleasant greeter and sidled up to the customer service desk.
The woman behind the counter asked why I was returning the beer. Was there something wrong and did I have a receipt? I smiled at her smugly because I knew I was doing the honorable thing.
“I’m not returning it,” I said. “I found it.”
She looked down at the Coronas.
“You found them. There’s more than one in there, so you found them.”
I thought right then and there that I also found something else: that the customer service desk woman was a smart ass.
“Alright, I found them,” I corrected myself with a glare that wasn’t very nice.
“Where?” she asked.
“In your parking lot. Under a cart. Can I keep them?”
She glared back at me.
“What, like a reward?”
Oh, she was definitely a smart ass.
“Yes, like a reward,” I replied. Even as I said it, I knew I didn't really deserve a reward. Maybe they could give me a coupon for being honest, but I shouldn't get the whole 12-pack.
Nevertheless, she left and went through some back door and trusted me not to have second thoughts and bolt with the cold beer staring at me from the counter. I thought maybe she was checking with a manager about what to do.
I waited for a long time and all the while thought that, really, this shouldn’t have been that difficult. She could have politely refused me, taken the beer and held it behind the counter for some woman to eventually come back in with a receipt (of course it would be a woman) and she'd be panting and frazzled because, when she got home, she'd find her limes but not her Coronas.
And all she wanted was a cold Corona with a sliver of lime.
(I say all of that not because women are forgetful, but because it seems that only women drink Coronas. And me, a guy, who happens to also like them, as in plural.)
Oddly enough, though, that’s not what happened when the customer service woman returned. She came out and she was smiling.
And then she said I could keep the beer.
“I can keep the beer? Really?”
“Yes. On one condition.”
She kept smiling and more people came out from behind, and they were smiling too, and some started clapping. One woman took a picture and I thought that maybe I was dreaming. Then the smart ass explained that each year, they leave a 12-pack of Coronas in the bottom of a cart. They’ve done it for eleven years and for eleven years they’ve watched a person discover the beer, look around the lot, and then take off with it. This is their twelfth attempt and they’ve been waiting all of this time for the one person who would be honest.
And that one person was me.
Then she said, “You must be special or maybe you’re chosen or something stupid like that.”
"Maybe I am.” I thought about telling her that I have a replica of a well known constellation on my knee, but then I assumed she’d probably make fun of me. So I didn't.
Anyhow, there was a strange pause and silence and everyone was staring at me so I looked over my shoulder to see if this was a joke or if maybe even people like me can get punk'd. I reached down and started pinching my Big Dipper to wake up, you know, just in case I really had fallen asleep under the narrow branches with the wide leaves.
But nothing happened. This was real, I think, or at least I haven't woken up yet.
So, I informed her and the small crowd of supermarket employees that I was up for the challenge, I suppose, but obviously needed to know what the one condition was.
As soon as she started talking, I thought that maybe I should have followed my gut and put the abandoned beer in my trunk.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Chapter 17 My Head is All Scrambled
God, I have trouble focusing. My head is all scrambled.
It is because of this that I write.
Somehow, here, I am at peace. Some window is opened, and words are released.
I can concentrate.
So, I offer these words as a prayer:
Help me to be a man after your own heart.
Allow me see life through your eyes today. Please give me ears to hear.
Show me where to walk. Right where you would.
Teach me the best way to comfort those who are hurting and alone. Direct my attention to the downtrodden, so that I can love them and serve them with abandon.
Remind me today (and every day) that it’s all about Jesus.
Simple as that.
Because when I get that, I relax.
I’m easier to be around, and I love better.
The trivial starts to fade away.
I worry less.
I obsess less.
I complain less.
Help me to be the Church; without judgment, criticism or hypocrisy.
Make me more forgiving.
More graceful.
A better listener.
A better friend.
Allow my rhythm to be slower; my pace, enviable.
Remind me that in your eyes, the playing field is leveled. I’m not the star. I’m only as loved as the next one.
But oh, how loved I am.
Amen.
It is because of this that I write.
Somehow, here, I am at peace. Some window is opened, and words are released.
I can concentrate.
So, I offer these words as a prayer:
Help me to be a man after your own heart.
Allow me see life through your eyes today. Please give me ears to hear.
Show me where to walk. Right where you would.
Teach me the best way to comfort those who are hurting and alone. Direct my attention to the downtrodden, so that I can love them and serve them with abandon.
Remind me today (and every day) that it’s all about Jesus.
Simple as that.
Because when I get that, I relax.
I’m easier to be around, and I love better.
The trivial starts to fade away.
I worry less.
I obsess less.
I complain less.
Help me to be the Church; without judgment, criticism or hypocrisy.
Make me more forgiving.
More graceful.
A better listener.
A better friend.
Allow my rhythm to be slower; my pace, enviable.
Remind me that in your eyes, the playing field is leveled. I’m not the star. I’m only as loved as the next one.
But oh, how loved I am.
Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)