Furthest Thing
Kevin Joseph Ryan
1.
The Bluetooth-wearing mailman slouches toward my door
with letters from the old town that mice around each
pothole. It’s been five years since a letter has
come from the old town, and too long in
an open theatre
will make an actor out of
anyone, so after a year I laid props on the stage and began
my own town. And though the pace of city riles
me well, I wanted my town to be
village-like, composed, with farms
and a market—a bucket and a suitcase.
Every night as I’m falling sleep I have a new
idea, and the next day I add another prop to
the stage. Last night, I imagined the chapel: built in 1910
by railway companies as a halfway station, a diplomatic
rest-stop between two better cities. After the trains broke down,
a commune took over the depot. When the church folk came along, the squatters had left--though
it took much deep-scrubbing to neutralize the reek of tofu curry and the imprints left by
miniature bongos from the drum circle that’s become an altar. Older now, old like a pasture, the
chapel’s wood floor groans when you walk and gripes when you tip-toe—windows slope
downward, away from all stairs; doors tumble out and ceiling sags low. But, like any good
building or decent person, each hoary wall meets the roof as cathedra.
2.
As my stage crew lug around milk crates, I decide that if you travel northwest on Highway 49
past the marbled plaques for the
“Jesse James Gang Cave Hideouts” and any relics from the Precious Doll
Museum, a green road-sign labeled Exit 7B will read “New Town: 2 miles. ”
Just before the Ext there’s a billboard:
“AGAPE CHAPEL: Come join
our procession and get a coffee on ‘the Heavenly House from the Big Man from Up Stairs,’” and
there’s an image of the pastor:
With his false teeth and fur blazer, Reverend John looks more like J. Jhon the Magician, rabbit in
stow and wand at the ready,
unfolded and folding, but unfolded yet more.
On the other side of the billboard is an ad for surgical weight-loss with a word-like phone
number (917-NO-MO-FAT) and a picture of some guy in a doctor costume who’s smirking upand-left at photo testimonials:
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