The sign was being held by a thin man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform and a New York City policeman’s cap.

Mr. James edged crabwise, dragging his suitcase behind, and said in heavily accented English, “Youf are from the agency, da?”

Later, as the black Impala sped through the slums of Bogota, Mr. James lit a cigarette and gazed at the sun setting behind the mountains. Once more he opened the brochure that had lured him to Colombia. “You are finding love with many women. Come and choosing from beautiful ladies. Young. Pretty. American Visa Available.”

On either side of Mr. James was an elderly Baptist preacher looking for his fourth wife and, behind the driver, a car insurance salesman who bore a remarkable resemblance to a neurotic New York filmmaker. “Are you sure there are Jewish women in Bogota?” he asked after the Impala sped past a dozen Roman Catholic churches and a bombed-out mosque.

Senor Lopez, the driver, glanced back at his passengers and nodded. He had written the brochure; this was his car; and his wife’s friends, sisters, cousins were anxiously waiting for their future husbands and green cards.

Two other Chevys and a Ford Fiesta were also speeding towards their romantic rendezvous with passengers picked up from the flight from Miami. Senor Lopez, who had been born in Jersey City, had placed ads in the all the English and Spanish newspapers from Key West to Palm Beach and expected to get rich matching Colombian women with Americans.

Forty minutes later, the three vehicles pulled up in front of a long, single story warehouse painted royal blue. The surrounding buildings also looked like warehouses although all seemed to be abandoned. Most of the windows in the area had been broken by hurled bricks or gunshots, and the glass had been replaced by cardboard or empty flower sacks. Near the entrance a single word of graffiti “Revolucian!” had been crossed out and next to it someone had scrawled a phone number. Mr. James noticed that the number was the same one printed in the brochure next to Mr. Lopez’s name.

Once inside, all the Americans were given a glass of sour red wine and led to one of five tables. Along with a dozen other mostly middle aged men, Mr. James scanned the room which was full of women. Unlike the men, the women appeared to be in their twenties and thirties. Attractive and well dressed, they sat at the tables and waited for the men to join them.

Mr. James made eye contact with a pretty blue-eyed blonde and approached her table. “Youf are looking for husband?” he said.

“Jes. My name es Rosie,” she said. “Por favor to sit down.” Rosie was twenty-three years old and had been arrested seven times for transporting national treasures from Columbia to neighboring countries, including the United States. Rosie thought Mr. James had a strange accent, but she surmised that he was from Texas or Buffalo, New York.

“What is your name, senor mister?”

“James.”

“Que? James? What is your family name?”

“James.”

Rosie pondered this. She did not want to appear stupid. Obviously his name was James. But did he have another name?

“You are American, jes?”

“Of course,” said Mr. James, flourishing his American passport. “Citizen. USA.”

Rosie touched his hand and the passport found its way into her fingers. She opened it and saw a photo of a man with a thick brown beard. The man sitting across from her was clean shaven but obviously the same person. Under the photo was printed the name: James James.

“Your name is James and your other name is James.”

“Da.” Mr. James did not explain that he had been born Ivan Illych Borrsky in Leningrad and had changed his name after immigrating to America. “You like me? I think you pretty. Marry? Yes.”

The next morning Mr. and Mrs. James hurried through Miami customs and into a waiting stretch limo. From the backseat, Mr. James made two phone calls, one to his lawyer who had prepared the pre-nuptial contract and another to the manager of Mr. James’ club in Fort Lauderdale.

“We are going to your home?” asked Rosie.

“Nyet. Business first.” said Mr. James. “Vodka.” He pointed to the mini fridge.

Forty-five minutes later the limo pulled off I-95 and made its way to Au Naturel, the strip club owned by Mr. James. As he stepped out, he told the driver to take Mrs. James home. But Rosie Marie Conseula Jimenez James had recognized the driver of the limo as an undercover DEA agent who had interviewed her at the Krome Processing Center during her last visit to the United States. On that trip, Rosie had been carrying a smuggled Indian artifact stuffed with cocaine. Unfortunately for Rosie, the driver recognized Rosie as well, and she was soon on her way back to Federal detention.

At 3 a.m. that night when Mr. James returned home and could find no sign of Rosie, he was confused. Mr. James found American women too aggressive and demanding, and Russian women too dull (although he secretly yearned for a return of the Soviet Union and its sense of order).

The women who danced at his club he considered whores. The Latins, he thought, with their overblown sense of machismo, at least had the right idea about their wives and women in general. That was why he had answered the ad in the Herald.

When a week passed with no sign of his new bride, Mr. James decided to take action. His lawyer had found a satisfaction guaranteed clause in the marriage contract, and Mr. James phoned Senor Lopez direct.

Although Lopez was extremely angry at Rosie, he too had no explanation. Knowing that he was trapped, he reluctantly agreed to provide Mr. James with a new bride after having the first marriage annulled.

“When will you arrive in Bogota?” asked Lopez.

“Nyet,” said Mr. James, “you deliver, da?”

“Deliver?”

“Da. Das vidanya.”

Senor Lopez hung up the phone. “I don’t think this Senor James is really American,” he said to his wife.

“So?” she said. “It’s my sister’s turn to marrying. And she loves Miami Dolphins. Tony Sparano. Bill Parcells. Chad Pennington. Viva America.”

“Viva America,” sighed Senor Lopez.

—————

Michael Minassian, if he really exists, likes to frolic in the tulips, providing they exist. Which they do.

“It’s fine son, it’s just fine, now go on with your symposium presentation!”

“Um…OK…um, Professor Defrancesco, is it supposed to be that color?

“That’s perfectly natural, son–”

Ten minutes later, after Jenny Blotnick is rushed to the hospital with a flux capacitator lodged in her eye…

“Now boys and girls, with science, you have to be willing to lose an eye. Jenny was–is a promising young scientist, and she would have wanted us to continue–you all saw that we were able to find the pieces of her eye, and I’ll bet the folks at County will be able to put them back in Jenny’s head–I mean, even if she no longer has sight in the eye, she probably won’t have to wear an eye patch–but who’s to say that that wouldn’t be cool?”

“‘Fessor Defrancheesie, [sniffing away tear] can we go home now–”

“Listen you little pussy, you’re not going anywhere–ya’ see? Ya’ see! OK…Timmy, you’re up!”

“OK…OK…like, um…OK…like my thing, my ‘posium thing is like…OK, wait…OK, now, um, for the ‘posium, I ‘cided to do this thing ’cause it was easy, and like, ‘fessor Defrancockso, like made me–he said he’d beat my ass raw, like–or whatever, so I ‘cided to like do this s’periment on sound waves, and how you can, like, turn shit way high and ‘splode a wine glass and all, so like, here’s a wine glass…and here’s the machiner that can go, like, way high…OK…wait…OK…wait…OK…wait…OK…um, ‘fessor, is it supposed to turn that color?”

Students ran out of the stuffy little room where physics was taught, ears bleeding. Those who were merely left without the use of their ears could be comforted by the endowment sapping lawsuits they were sure to win, but poor Timmy Rhineblatt wasn’t so lucky. President Arnold Melvoin paid a visit to his folks…

“Mister and missus Rhineblatt…Billy–

“Timmy!”

“Timmy was a treasure, and I’m not just saying that because his head was exploded by gamma rays, but because of what he meant to the community at Economy State University–”

“I thought it was a private school?”

“It was…anyhow, we would like to dedicate the new science building as the Billy–”

“Timmy!”

“Timmy Rhineblatt Science Pavilion and Student Fun-Time Lounge.”

And so, as the next generation of students at ESU enjoy the Fun-Time Lounge–including sports bar–they might drink to poor Timmy, he will be missed. Godspeed Billy–er, Timmy Rhineblatt!

————

Tom Johns, a lifelong Chicagoan, recently turned thirty. Despite this, he’s still “emerging” and about to graduate with honors from Lake Forest College (IL) in Creative Writing. Primarily, Johns furtively writes dirty little stories, some of which have been honored and published (this most recently happened in February’s Word Riot and Black Bile Press’s Front&Centre #18), but he also does journalism (famously interviewed Roland Burris) and writes plays (indeed, he was recently produced). Like a dipshit, Johns is going for his MFA and looks forward to earning stipend enough for daily chicken dinners. You can reach the author at johnsta@lfc.edu

Yeah, I’m White, so what? White like a piece of Xerox paper dunked in a barrel of bleach. I’m White like vanilla ice cream if you take the flavoring out. I mean, there’s not even any vanilla in my shit, fake or natural. I’m just pure no-color fucked-up White. I’m so White what spits out my mouth can cross out typos. Can erase shit. Like history.

But, check it – does that mean I’m not hip hop?

Just because I got a rock garden in my backyard with some fat-ass carp swimming around in a pond with lily pads – I mean, yo, that shit’s dope, with a bubble fountain of water trickling over stones; that shit’s so constantly soothing it’ll make you think you don’t need to smoke weed like more than once a week – for real though, just because of that carp and bubble nurturing environment twenty20feet from my mom’s living room window, you think I’m not hip hop?

My point is blatant. Most motherfuckers fail to get educated the way they need to be. See, hip hop is the voice of the street, and even though the street I live on got houses with nineteen empty bedrooms and basements bigger than the typical cruise ship and those cruel and unusual electronic fences that shock the shit out of some specific poodle-looking horrible drooling dogs, it ain’t about what the street looks like. It ain’t about whether there’s homies on the corner drinkin’ forties, or even no corner at all €˜cuz there’s no sidewalks, and the specifically designed cul-de-sac winds around in a gentle curve like some beautiful woman’s hip – that shit’s ill, for real – €˜cuz the point is the idea of street. Even my bougie-ass street got to have a voice.

Tell the truth, I ain’t on some Desperate Housewives shit neither. There’s some shorties up in that piece, no doubt – believe me I’d be getting’ busy in some of those gazebos or whatever – but, yo, my mom ain’t even like that. She don’t be hoin’ nobody, like poisoning drinks so she can get the job at the breast cancer fundraiser or some bullshit. She just be doing some, like, mystic breathing exercises in t he rock garden. She just be pressing her hands together like she’s praying and spinning in slow wind-circles like20some ten thousand-year-old shaman tripped out of his skull on mushrooms in the desert gloaming. Always be like, yo, Aaron, come join me, it’ll be good for your chi. Like what the fuck’s my chi? Some kind of rodent hibernating in my ribcage? Like it needs a full-finger massage just so it can wake up and feel dope enough to migrate to the grocery store? Yo, my chi’s fine, all right. Don’t be buggin’ me out with that.

My main problem is I gotta start tenth grade tomorrow. That’s a horrifying prospect. I mean, if anything’s gonna piss my chi off, it’s that. First off, my mom bought me a whole brand new wardrobe of gay golf shirts. Like, mom, peep reality, I’m not going to the country club right now. Plus, for real, the shirts are gay. That’s the truth. They put eye-liner on and go to gay bars and give each other sleeve jobs. My mom’s gonna be all up in my mug though if I don’t wear them. She’s gonna be like, Aaron, why you gotta dress like you’re about to jack somebody’s sister with a baseball bat? You’re a handsome young man, Aaron, why don’t you stop hiding in those sweatshirt hoods and let people see your face?

Ain’t no problem with my face. Ain’t no problem with people seeing it either. It’s my choice though. This is the United States of America. If I want to conceal something, I conceal it. If I want to flaunt, I flaunt. That s how it goes in this piece. Plus, yo, it’s hard to put summertime behind me. don’t even like thinking about it. All I do all summer is exactly what I want to be doing. School’s on some whole other kind of high-caloric fucked-up stress diet. You try to chill there, you try to do your thing, and people are gonna fuck with you. For real.

As soon as school starts, the first casualty is the time I need to make my album the way I want it. I got the flows no doubt, or at least I got the ideas for the flows, and I be trying to write shit every day, like I try to put the pen to page and spit fire, but now it’s gonna be like, yo, hold up, no time for the studio €˜cuz some stale-ass teacher with breath like something dark and mysterious on the bottom of a homeless dude’s boot has to decide it’s his ultimate life-goal to give me a five-paragraph essay to write. This is how you learn how to think, them teachers be saying. For real, Aaron, this is how we know you’re getting it. Yeah, how about I be getting your grandma in the backseat of her Suburban? How about she serves me in the downtown library parking lot? Would you know if I got that?

See, everybody thinks I don’t read, like I spend all day playing videogames or drinking forties or whatever, and, believe me, I=E 2m not gonna lie, I put in my hours, yo, with the PS2, but I can walk away whenever I want. And forties, who am I gon na drink €˜em with? My skinny Casper The Ghost self outta some paper bag like a specifically dilapidated whino? I might be fucked up, yo. I might be in therapy every Tuesday and Thursday, but I’m not sleeping in the clinic doorway. I’m not mumbling to myself about somebody please give me a cigarette or I’m gonna twitch in mad convulsions and die right here in front of your innocent pre-school daughter. Peep the obvious, yo – I got deep insights. I got vocabulary sicker than the average raccoon with rabies because I do read. For real. I read every page of every book I ever get assigned by every dandruff-dripping, smelling-like-a-dumpster teacher I got. Not the Cliff Notes either. The whole shit.

I look at it like this – if I don’t read but I want to have an opinion about the book, like I want to tell my moms to jump off my nuts and let me keep watching TV because the book I’m supposed to be reading blows hard on my specifically disinterested johnson – then if I didn’t read the book, I’m just fronting. I’m straight fake like any asshole who says dumb shit like all hip hop is only about bling and blunts, but who ain’t even heard any hip hop since, like, the Furious Five or some other distinctly extinct nursing home motherfuckers. No disrespect to the Furious Fi ve, that’s some pioneers right there, but still you’re talking Dark Ages. You’re talkin’ shit that was written on stone tablets. The hip hop species has evolved since then. Seriously, if you can’t take the time to listen, then who the fuck are you to commentate?

Same point why I got to read the books. And, yo, I’m not saying all of them, but a lot of those shits are wack. Like how many times I’m supposed to read about some dust-covered girl whose, like, bustle skirt or whatever is too constricting, complain about how the dude she likes left his card on the table in the parlor, but it was after tea instead of before tea, or it should have been a letter with some specifically colorful family crest, or how come his man didn’t just drop him off in his coach or – what the fuck, yo – do the dude or don’t do the dude. And if you don’t do the dude, do a different dude. I ain’t got time for your tea and needlepoint turmoil, all right.

For real, I got shit to do. I be staying up late to read that nonsense. I got a small lamp in my bedroom and I’m all spread out on my bed like I’m the clean white sheet itself, and the lamp is creating this, like, haunting pool of light that’s glowing all over my shit. It’s 3 a.m. and I’m bathing in this pool of light to, like, purify my White fucked-up needing-therapy-two-days-a-week ass, and I kn ow the drunk daughters of the doctors who live up in this piece – but, yo, they be some serious females wasted on wine coolers and other bullshit beverages – and they be cruising in their cute, yellow, like, small-sized mini-Hummers – tell me that’s not fucked up – and I know they see that glorious wash of light painting my window and they’re probably giggling and saying, yo, that dude must be on some kind of Einstein tip, and to tell the truth, they’re correct. That’s an accurate statement.

But don’t go crazy with that shit either. I ain’t no fuckin’ glow-in-the-dark nocturnal nerd-lizard so don’t think like, yo, just prescribe this albino freak some Valium-spiked food coloring or some other kind of unproductive narcotic remedy and he’s gonna be la-la peaceful dreamland. Hell nah, you need to check out another accurate statement. I ain’t no vampire. I be reading in the daytime too. The sun be toasting my sunscreen-frosted skin like a marshmallow – seriously, I lather on a straight fifth of that UVD-35 mess every day – and I be dragging my specifically rat-looking chi out to the rock garden and chillin’ in the shade. I be straight reclining on the wrought-iron bench flipping pages while those overweight Twinkie-jonesing lardfish swim around bumping their heads against the sides of the pond. Stupid no-memory having fucks. Like learn some shit already, all right? Figure something out when you smack your forehead against a rock repeatedly. For real, yo, internalize some knowledge. I don’t understand how evolution didn’t just electric- chair the whole muttfish species.

It’s tranquil though. Even bugs, like some specifically military ants, be kicking back and peacein’ in that mug. I come up with some of my best rhymes just sitting there, just listening to the rhythm of the fountain, watching the Special Ed. Carp knock themselves furtherly stupid. Check it -

Yo, fly miss

Let me show you

How I kiss

Like an ichthyologist

Studies fish I’ll know your lips

Like a barnacle loves ships

Ah, ah, ah! Who wants to fuck with that? Who got multiple nautical metaphors like this motherfucker? Not you. Hell nah! Tell me that’s not romantic. Tell me shorties ain’t getting ready to peel down to their hot satin right this specifically motivated second!

I’ll tell you the truth, though. I’m not really pulling the honeys like I should be. With my kind of lyrical skill, mad hos should be feeling me. They should be all on my jock like a salamander to a camouflaged tree branch or whatever, but for some ridiculous reason, it’s not occurring. It’s like school. It’s like my album. I got my ideas about how things should be, but the reality doesn’t agree how I want it to. Some dictator teacher got to throw me an essay just when I’m getting ready to see if a fly female wants to holler at me and, yo, no w I’m too busy for my flows and the females subsequently be gravitating elsewhere.

It’s like what happened the first day of school last year, I mean the very first day of ninth grade, like, hello, welcome to the warm and fuzzy high school experience, fuck you.

Okay, actually it was the second day, but let’s be real, the first day doesn’t count because nobody knows what’s going on, everybody’s just wandering the hallways like a drunk population of junior citizen refugees, so I’m talking about the real first day, and I spot this hot female over by the water fountain near the auditorium. So, you know, I mean, middle school was wack, but now it’s new, right? Now it’s like the true deal of the unsheltered world, and who’s more prepared for that than I am? I mean, I’m like freakin’ Einstein, right? I read more books than your grandparents and their parents and all their adulterous lovers combined, so I figure, fuck it, I’m gonna holler at this girl. I don’t know if she’s a senior, or a student council member, or a specifically talented teenage architect who designed the water fountain she’s drinking at – all I know is she looks good. Got tan skin and hair like twelve different co lors of blond and tight shorts all up in her crotch like excuse me, but this very moment is the optimal time to get busy, and so I’m like, yo, Shortie, check it, I got flows, for real ..

And, she’s like, “What?”

And, I’m like, “What you mean what?”

And she’s like – with this fucked-up ugly I’ll-kill-you-with-a-hypodermic-needle glare – “What I mean is I didn’t hear you. You talk too quiet.”

I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about – I’m a loud, fill-the-room-type bullhorn motherfucker – but, all right, I repeat myself, like, practically yelling it in her ear – which is gorgeous by the way, like aerodynamically shaped and exquisitely designed – “Shortie, yo, I got flows, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“No, I don’t know what you’re saying,” she says, “and I don’t know why you’re calling me Shortie either. Look at you. How old are you? You look like some fifth-grader’s little brother. I’m, like, a foot taller than you.”

“But, yo, I got flows though,” I tell her, like, for real, what is she failing to be educated about here? Like how come her chi ain’t feelin’ my chi or whatever.

And she says, “Look, I don’t know if you’re a freshman or what, and what is it with these flows? Is that some kind of a drug? Are you talking monthly flows? I don’t get it.”

“Monthly flows?”

“Listen, you might be a nice boy,” she says, “but I’m sorry, I don’t have time for this. Why don’t you hit on someone who knows what you’re talking about?”

And that’s when I hear some dudes laughing, like a whole grip of ho-ho-ho motherfuckers with their hands over their mouths, cracking up like they never saw anything funnier in their lifetimes. I mean, one of these clowns actually falls down on the floor and is lying on his back laughing, kicking his feet in the air looking like a specifically tantrum-throwing infant, and I’m, like fuck this bullshit bougie school anyway. I’m not about to start weeping profusely or some other specifically female tendency so I try to play it off, like maybe there’s not really twenty or thirty dudes and some additional also hot-looking shorties laughing at me, so maybe I’ll just turn to the water fountain and inhale my own highly necessary and refreshing drink, and that’s when I see the red box with the glass case around it.

It’s not like I planned it. For real, I was just thinking fuck you, fuck this school, fuck all y’all, drink some water, and the opportunity just presented itself like somebody’s fat wallet lying on the sidewalk. I look at these ho-ho-ho idiots still laughing and I give them a very specific middle finger and then I break the glass with my bony-ass knuckles and the consequential noise was a lot louder than I thought it would be. All of a sudden it’s clang-clang-clang an d whistling beeps and flashing lights and I’m gonna tell you something, those dudes stopped laughing and starting running in all different directions like some scattering cowardly soldiers when the bomb hits and I just stand there like, yeah, you giggling pre-school motherfuckers, I did it – until the buckethead principal pulls me by the elbow with his specifically primetime young man, come with me monologue, and all of a sudden, I ain’t even been in high school two days and I’m suspended for a week.

My mom was pissed too, disappointed more than anything, she told me for seven basically San Quentin days straight, and so I was like, okay, I’ll drink this farm animal tasting wheat grass if you say so and I’ll accompany you to the downward dog homo yoga studio and, seriously, it ain’t my misaligned chakras that made me pull that fire alarm, but if it’ll make you think I’m not gonna, like, burn down the children’s hospital or whatever, then fuck it, yeah, I’ll do it.

I got blamed for a lot of shit after that. Every time a stoned-out-of-his-dome weedhead set fire to the bathroom, every time somebody tagged some suck-my-genitals type profanity on the wall, every20time anybody did anything remotely related to my anti-social incident, here come the CIA hall monitor homeboys with their walkie-talkies on lock – where’s Aaron? Who’s seen Aaron? It got to the point where when something shady happened, I just mig rated down to the office and sat there waiting. I never said nothing either. Accuse me of this, accuse me of that, suspend me, whatever. I only ever care about what my mom thinks. I only don’t want to see her crying and thinking she’s a fucked-up parent – yo, I will kill motherfuckers for my mom – so, damn, every time they mess with me I got to tell her, mom, I’m being honest, I didn’t do the shit. Yes, I pulled the fire alarm, but everything else – no, the shit’s bogus. For real.

I think she believes me, but I’m not sure. I hear her crying in the middle of the night when I’m reading in my pool of light. Every week now, I go to yoga with her. My chi’s good now, I tell her. My chi’s all balanced, I can feel that shit.

So I’m gonna look at sophomore year like this – I’m gonna go to school, but I’m gonna let the females come to me. If they don’t, they’re stupid, or too weeded out to walk properly or whatever, but I ain’t chasing no one. Not by no water fountains, not in the parking lot, not in gym class, or the library. I’m gonna read all the books=2 0they tell me to, and I might even raise my hand if I feel like it. Mostly, though, I’m about to work on my album. I got a gift, yo, and I owe it to the world to share it. For real, who got multiple nautical metaphors like this motherfucker? Not you.

————

Jeff Kass teaches Creative Writing at Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor MI and at Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti MI and also works as the Poet-in-Residence for Ann Arbor Public Schools. His poems, stories and essays have been published or are forthcoming in The Ann Arbor News, The Georgetown Review, Current, The Wayne Literary Review, Anderbo, Barnwood, Bull Men’s Fiction, Amarillo Bay, Writecorner, and The Spoken Word Revolution Redux. His one-man performance poetry show Wrestle the Great Fear debuts in April, 2009 and his short story collection Knuckleheads is forthcoming from Dzanc Books.

In my more idealistic days, I found myself on a plane to Oklahoma City with little more than high hopes for a contract for a theater I had never seen.   Most people fly in the other direction, toward the great metropolis of the Big Apple, but I thought that reversing the philosophy of Peggy Sawyer and Millie Dillmount might offer better casting odds.  This particular theater’s season was chock-full of shows that begged for actors and voice types like me.   And in my innocence, I thought that it was worth traversing multiple state lines for this one audition.   How much I had to learn €¦

*

I shivered outside in the frigid Oklahoma City air, mildly embittered by the fact that my dream of a perpetually sunny and warm “People-will-say-we’re-in-love” Oklahoma had not materialized.   I was waiting outside the airport for the hotel’s courtesy shuttle, though the increasingly long wait lent itself to the notion that perhaps the shuttle was becoming more of a hassle than a courtesy.   Nonetheless, I was thrilled when distant headlights appeared on the “Waiting Area” horizon.

The shuttle, by which I mean a ’98 Mercury Villager masquerading as a taxi, halted in front of me, and like something out of Star Trek, slid open its side door to reveal its contents.   I examined closely. Functional seatbelts?   Check.   Relatively clean interior?   Check. Persian taxi driver who would doubtless give me enough comedy material to jumpstart a career in stand-up?

Check.

Amahl, as I came to call him  €“ for I could neither discern nor pronounce his real name  €“ leaned back in the driver’s seat and exclaimed in a warm Persian accent, ” ‘ello, babe!   ‘ow are you?”

His Persian-tinted English joyfully hearkened me back to the era of Jon Lovitz’s “Frenchie” skits on SNL, and there I was, a modern day glossy-eyed Ingrid Bergman of sorts, immersed in taxi-driver love. Truth be told, anything beyond the airport’s stone bench waiting to drain the warmth from my butt would have produced a near equivalent to adoration by that point, but what better recipient of my nervous laughter than ‘Amahl’.

Given his abundance of general enthusiasm and my knack for forming unusual acquaintances, I thought we hit it off quite nicely.   As I explained my rationale for coming to Oklahoma  €“ to audition  €“ he regaled me with praise: “Oh, you are going to be so great!   You have a beautiful smile and a lovely laugh!”   We shared small anecdotes and personal philosophies as the Mercury Villager sped down the highway, and he dropped me off at the hotel with a parting of “We should be praying for you tonight, eh?   Good luck tomorrow!”

I waltzed into the hotel lobby and sauntered up to the front desk, ready to reserve a taxi for the next morning’s audition.   I felt sufficiently surrounded by Midwestern hospitality, as even the nearby cleaning lady took an interest in my imminent future, and I fell asleep that night convinced that despite its deceptively difficult temperatures, Oklahoma was a cozy substitution for home sweet home.

The next morning arrived, and I awoke to nervous knots in my stomach and the absence of a complimentary continental breakfast.   As I entered the hotel lobby, I searched for signs of nourishment.   When all attempts at locating my morning’s sustenance failed, I focused my gaze on the front entrance in expectation of a taxi.

Enter the Villager.

My excitement at the possibility of familiarity suppressed the growling in my stomach, and as I walked outside, Amahl exclaimed, “‘ello, babe!   It’s you!”   He enthusiastically affirmed my audition-ready appearance as he strode into the hotel for coffee.   I took a few deep breaths as I settled myself into the van and mentally reviewed my audition materials.   Amahl strolled back out to the van, travel mug and pastry in hand, at which point I decided he was either “in” with a secret sect of the continental breakfast club or involved in the danish mafia.

We drove along the highway, bantering back and forth about his previous evening’s riders, and finally we reached the theater’s parking lot.     “Here we are, babe!”   Amahl exclaimed.   “I would get out and escort you to the door, but they’ll think I’m gay.”

He handed me a neon pink business card with his number emblazoned in bold and instructed me to call when I was ready to be picked up.

I sang for the director and got asked to stay and dance, but that was the extent of my success.   I called Amahl and fought the urge to mope over the fact that it would be half an hour before he arrived.   When Amahl’s bright yellow van finally drifted into view, joy surged through my heart.   I darted across the pavement and hopped into the Villager.   He asked how the audition had gone, and I briefly explained that frequent rejection is something actors must learn to accept.   He immediately affirmed my words, saying, “You know, that is so great. You are so young, and you know so much!”

Then his tone shifted.

“When I was young, I came to the States for an education,” he mused, and I eagerly soaked up the beginning of what I imagined would be a very inspirational tidbit of advice.   He paused to reflect upon his next choice of words, and I thought, Oh, this is gonna be good.

He continued, “But my father died back in Iran.   So I went back to Iran and built up my own business on the internet.”   I nodded vigorously, affirming his resilience and work ethic.   His pounding emphasis intensified as he recounted, “I made lots and lots of money, but then I lost thousands of dollars.”   He exclaimed, “I was thousands of dollars in debt!”   He paused for dramatic effect, and I eagerly leaned forward.   He bellowed, “And I said to myself, ‘If you f-ck it up, you f-ck it up, and you dig yourself a grave and throw the dust on top of you!!’”

I see.

This wasn’t quite the pep talk I had envisioned, but he wasn’t finished yet.   He continued to discuss more of his personal feelings toward the world, including, “And then I had an arranged marriage, you know?   An arranged marriage, in Iran, that’s what we do.   And you know, my wife, she couldn’t handle me, I was so experienced.”

My only acquaintance in Oklahoma had suddenly become a prime candidate for couples’ therapy, and I had no idea whether I should recommend a professional or offer my own thoroughly unsubstantial advice.   I decided that silence was the best response, coupled with sudden but intense interest in the intricate patterns of crabgrass lining the highway.

“But,” he began again, “you know what got me through?”

Oedipus himself would be at a loss, Amahl.

He pointed to the cross dangling from the rearview mirror and said with conviction, “I love Jesus.”

I slid my oversized sunglasses down the bridge of my nose.   The last time I checked, ‘Thou shalt love thy f-ckin’ neighbor’ had narrowly missed the mark of amendments to the Ten Commandments once again this year, but barring a possible misinterpretation on my end, I awaited elaboration.

There was none.   That was it.   Amahl had spoken his piece, and he settled into the driver’s seat with a renewed sense of vigor.

Back at home in Pennsylvania, I tried to make sense of my trip to Oklahoma.   I had felt so strongly about going to this audition  something about it just felt right and having come back empty-handed, I expected some alternative semblance of life-altering meaning to emerge from the whole experience.

Two weeks later after the audition, I attended a writing workshop conducted by Laurie Stone, whose opening exercise was to write about the most interesting interaction we had endured in the past month. Before she had even begun to clarify her instructions, my pen was scribbling furiously.

Here is our story.

————-

Jenny Piersol graduated from a small liberal arts college having earned a title even more prestigious than the coveted Homecoming Queen crown: that of  Grammar Goddess.   Her latest creative pursuits range from the publication of an analytic piece in a small academic journal to the realm of medical illustration for the American Physical Therapy Association, where one can only hope her depictions of the ischiofemoral ligament are changing lives.   Jenny formally refers to herself as an actress but spends most of her time honing her skills as an expert velociraptor impressionist.

Since the presidential candidates declined an invitation to participate in debate, invoking the confidentiality of Skull and Bones, we had to scramble to fill the slot to avoid returning advertising money. Luckily, we dug up two giants of a more profound debate. Actually one of them is more incarnation than man; the other man we literally dug up. {Oohs and ahhs}

To my right, I am pleased to introduce to you, the carrier of the crucible of Christianity, a man with no need for a last name, a man who most of you know as the author of the bible of Bibles, his eponymous Bible, the one and only Gideons Bible – ladies and gentlemen, I give you – the Righteous, the Religious, that God-fearing Guy – Gideon the Good. {Applause accompanied by some boos}

And to my left, the voice of the theory of the Descent of Man by Way of Natural Selection, whoa there’s a mouthful. A man with no need for a first name, though he does actually have one. Most of you know him as the father of the Theory of Evolution, however very few have actually seen, let alone read, his book, On the Origin of Species, and I bet fewer of you realize that he never once even uses the word evolution. Please give it up for the Realist, the Rational, that Doyen of Descent – Darwin the Decent. {Some boos accompanied by applause}

Gideon, let’s begin with you. How goes the battle for the soul of Humanity in the Age of Reason?

Gideon: Our sole purpose, you might call it our soul purpose, is to win men, women, boys and girls to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ through association, personal testimony, and distribution of the Bible in the human traffic lanes and streams of everyday life. {Amen}

Moderator: That sounds like a missionary’s mission statement taken directly from your web site, all right. But how is it progressing, man?

Gideon: Heavenly. [Reading from brochure] Early last century, we began placing the Word of God in hotels to save traveling salesmen from despair. [Extemporaneous] Of course our main competition then was a bottle of bourbon. Over the years we expanded distribution to include motels, hospitals, jails, ships, planes, trains and automobiles. [Back to the brochure] Last year alone we distributed more than 59,000,000 Scriptures worldwide. To God be the glory! That’s more than one million copies of the Word of God placed every seven days, 6,700 per hour, 112 per minute. Praise the Lord! {Hallelujah}

Moderator: And just what do all those Words of God proclaim about the origin of our species, Gideon?

Gideon: I address that question straight away in my Very Good Book, knowing full well people tend to nod off after the first chapter. Right up front, in Genesis 1:26, I quote God directly: “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness,” He says. “And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.”

Moderator: Amen, brother. You are preaching to the converted now. Chuck, has Gideon won you over yet, to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ?

Darwin: When Hell freezes over! As I have said many times, [Looks at Gideon] ignorance trumps knowledge in breeding confidence. Those who know little, not those who know much, are the ones who stridently dismiss the power of science to solve the mystery of our origins. {Go big “D”}

Moderator: Hard to argue with such an articulate and persuasive argument, but I do believe Gideon that Chuck here just called you ignorant.

Gideon: I take pleasure in, reproaches, in persecutions, for Christ’s sake (Corinthians 12:8). All told, more than 6 billion copies of the Very Good Book have been sold. How many of Darwin’s, um, what the devil is his book called again? Um, how many of his On the Genesis of Man – or some such title – has he sold? {Stick it to ‘em, G-Man}

Moderator: Chuck, Gideon has a point. You may know much, but not many people know much about what you know. I didn’t see a copy of your Origin book on my nightstand at the Best Western last night.

Darwin: It matters not whether people know much about what I know. The evidence I spent years accumulating is irrefutable; the Finches made me do it. Mankind is descended from the apes, which themselves are descended from lower life forms. Far from having dominion over fish and fowl and cattle and creepers, [Looks at Gideon] Man is lower than them all. And if history is a reliable guide, the descent will continue. {Half the audience holds up their Zippo lighters; the other half cross themselves}

Gideon: Do not err, my beloved brother (James 1:16). For if we sin willfully after we have received the knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sins (Hebrews 10:26). In other words, buddy [Looks at Darwin], the only place you are descending to is Hell! [Gideon raises his fist in the air] {Cheers, gasps}

Darwin: You want a piece of me? [Darwin rises to his feet. The audience has turned into an angry mob and parts like the Red Sea]

Moderator: [Voice raised, speaking to the audience] Clowns to the left, Jokers to the right. [The Clowns throw a rope over the rafter and string up Darwin; the Jokers string up Gideon.]

Moderator: [Voice resigned, speaking to nobody in particular] Gideon and Darwin are dead, and here I am stuck in the middle with You.

[Cut to commercial break]

————

Murray is a writer living in San Francisco. His stories appear in numerous online and offline journals, including: 3711 Atlantic, 400 Words, Ascent Aspirations, decomP, Duck & Herring Pocket Field Guides, GHOTI, Laughter Loaf, Opium Magazine, Peeks & Valleys, Rumble, The Big Jewel, and Yankee Pot Roast. He has written essays for Brink, Business 2.0, Prose Toad, Shine, Science Creative Quarterly, and Wired Magazine.