Laurels Literary Magazine Spring 2014 | Page 40

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: 40