Small towns can be like science experiments. Closed off from the rest of the world. Miles away from any major city. We are just a group of bacteria swimming around in the little dish waiting to see what grows. If you live here, the rest of the world will never know you exist. If you die here, no one will notice. Not outside the dish.
We are confined to our small space. Surrounded by an all encompassing wall of trees, we are forced to live, react and grow. Our roots stretch out wide and across years. And within our space.......we exist.
But make no mistake, within those streets, inside those homes, in our small town a small fire rages. One that threatens our way of life, and everyone in it. Whether we acknowledge it or not, it's coming.
Matthew 10:16 says, "I am sending you out as sheep among wolves. Therefore, be as wise as serpents, yet innocent as doves." We appear to fight this battle unarmed and outmatched by the viciousness of the wolves. By the cunning of the serpent. Yet, the deception of looks can often ensnare those who oppose us.
Because what is not seen by the wolf, is that the fire not only rages around us, but within us. And as the flames move in to destroy us both, only one will perish. As the howls of the wolf echo from inside the flames, the smoke will break against the wings of the dove as it rises above.
**********
Asher Lejune, simply known as "Preacher" to everyone that knew him, had taken over the ministry at his father's church. Five years prior, his father had fallen too far into dementia to carry on his duties. Upon stepping into his stead, Preacher quickly renamed the old building, New Zion Baptist Church. Almost overnight there were new faces in the congregation. Not strangers, but strangers to the church.
A new set of deacons were appointed and slowly the old crowd who had been faithful for years, and loyal to his father, stopped showing up to pray. It didn't seem to affect attendance. The building was always full, every Sunday and Wednesday.
On this particular Sunday evening, Preacher stood behind the podium, in front of the large group. A mixture of people, some dressed in their best and others in torn jeans and dirty shirts. The yellow light from the ceiling shown down on his shaved bald head, as tiny bugs fluttered around the bulb. The night air was hot. He loosened the top button of his shirt, letting hang the white priests collar he had worn.
He gripped the sides of the podium and leaned down against it. Both arms were riddled with tattoos that went all the way up his neck. He finished out the service by reciting a line of scripture.
"Then I will tell you to call upon the name of your god, and I will call upon the name of mine. And the God who answers by fire..... he is the true God."
Preacher lifted his hand in gesture to the pianist to his right. Immediately, a song began to play and the congregation rose to their feet and began to sing.
He stepped down from the stage and exited the room via a door behind him. The light from inside the sanctuary lit the dark hallway where a man leaned against the wall, a long rifle propped up beside him.
"Pick that up and follow me."
Redman picked up the rifle by the barrel and let it swing by his side as they walked. The hallway was wood paneled on both sides and a tile floor that scratched with grit was beneath his shoes. The sound of keys jingling from Preacher's pockets as he selected one to put into the door. It clicked loudly, followed by the creak of the hinges as it swung open.
"Shut that behind you."
There were no windows in the room. Redman had visited Preacher's private office many times and every time it was the same. The room was dark, save for a neon blue cross that hummed on the wall and a small desk lamp.
He leaned the rifle against the desk and slid into one of the two chairs in front of it. His feet ached from a long days use. They were his only means of travel, other than his bicycle. He stunk of sweat. Preacher sat down across from him, peeled his white priest collar and tossed it on the table between them.
"They come, they hear, they leave. They go right back home and drink Jack, Fuck Jill, and the world keeps on spinning. And I ask myself, 'Asher....how do you go on doing this'....and do you know the answer to that?"
"No Sir"
"Two words, brother. Collection plate. I tell ya, the man that came up with that little racket was a hell of a man. Now that's a man that knows business.
Sure, we could go out there, break their legs and take every dollar they got, but then that well is dry. We never see them again. You see, you gotta get a little bit every week. Just bleed them a little at a time, and they'll keep coming back. That's the difference between a thug and an entrepreneur."
Preacher threw his hands up with a big smile as if he had just revealed the secret to life. Redman answered quietly.
"Easy money."
Preacher leaned forward, the desk lamp illuminated a swirl of dust in the air around him. He pointed one finger at Redman.
"Easy Money! That's the way I like it. We washed money from the sell of 100 pounds of cocaine through those donations last week. Not to mention, the sell of Ketamine. As far as the government is concerned, or the local homers, we are as clean as a whistle. And with what we have coming from down south, our numbers are only going to grow. Easy money.
But I don't have you here to talk shop, do you remember those Blanchard boys, the brother you left a phillips head screwdriver in? That's a problem for me. That's not easy money. See, the people that work for me need to pay up freely.
Now, the one with the hole in his neck, he won't be giving us a problem anymore I don't reckon. Hell, he might even start paying early."
Preacher removed a toothpick from his desk drawer and placed it in his mouth.
"Now the brother....the brother is a dog that ain't been whipped. And worse yet, he's vengeful. He's full of anger, and that anger will do nothin' but grow like a weed. You let one weed grow and it will spread. That's bad for business."
"You want me to take care of it?"
"The thing about weeds is, you can't wait, you gotta pluck em as soon as they pop up. That weed's been plucked. There's a bag in the trunk of a silver car out back. I want you to take it out to the Hot Wells and dump it."
Without a thought Redman stood from his chair, leaving the rifle behind. As he made his way toward the door, a quiet knock echoed through the room. He turned the knob to open it. A young girl stood wide eyed as she noticed the ragged man and the gun leaning against the table.
Her hair was dark, straight down to her shoulders. Brown, tanned legs stuck out from beneath a floral patterned sundress. Her eyes moved to the preacher.
"Don't worry about the gun, hunny. We been getting some not so nice phone calls. Our friend is here just to make sure we're safe. Security. The devil has just as many vessels as the Lord out there."
"Yessir, you're right."
She turned back to Redman.
"Thank you for your help."
Redman looked down and began to exit the room. Preacher's voice faded behind him.
"It's a big bag, brother. Take help if you need it."
*****
Across town, the plywood mill hissed steam into the night air as it had for years. An older black man leaned against the driver's side door of his car. Parked in the lot of a small gas station known around town as Kwik Trip. The man gazed into the sky as the moon light bounced off of the white smoke puffs billowing through the air.
His car was a deep purple, with yellow lettering along the side. It read "C.D.'s Cab Service". In the small parish of Sabine, he was the one and only car service, and business was scarce. He would not hesitate to tell you that most of his business were drunk kids and women carrying trash bags of clothes, fleeing an abusive husband.
Known to everyone in town as Crawdaddy, he was a transplant from Southern Louisiana. The way he tells it, "When my momma died, I wasn't left with nothin' but this here car. So I started it up, and drove until the gas run out. And I ain't left here since."
As he sat in thought, a car's headlights approached from the street. Then, a spotlight washed over him until he couldn't see a thing. He held one hand up in front of his eyes. The other hand shoved a small whiskey bottle into the back pocket of his pants. He heard the car door open, then shut.
The click of the heels on the man's cowboy boots mixed with the scratch of the gravel beneath them. As he stepped in front of the light, the silhouette of a tall man wearing a cowboy hat appeared. C.D. looked down and acknowledged him.
