Power in the Blood

back up and whisked by my gem of a dresser on the way out of my room, pausing only long enough to secure the two folded bills on its corner.

The trailer had been repossessed, and its previous owners were obviously not a gentle breed. It was situated on a thatch grass prairie on what was supposed to be Phase II of an expanding mobile home community called the Prairie Palm. Presently, Phase II was a community of one, due in large part to Phase I, which resembled a trailer junkyard more than a place where people actually lived. The trailer park got its name from the lone sabal palm, Florida’s state tree, that stood in the center of the sixty-acre plot. The lonely tree seemed to me to be an appropriate metaphor for my isolated existence here and for the state I so loved. For Florida is a lonely appendage on a continent it resembles little.

As I walked down the extremely narrow hall of my not-somobile home, passing over the pale yellow linoleum that curled up so that it no longer reached the thin blond paneling of either wall, I remembered the two- story brick home that Susan and I had shared on Atlanta’s north side. Amazingly enough, this felt more like home, except for the filth of course. I opened the door and extended my hand and the money that it held in one flowing motion, more from practice than a God-given talent. Expecting to see Ernie, Sal’s nephew, who resembled the Sesame Street puppet of the same name, I made an audible expression and suddenly felt naked without my shirt when I saw the pert young delivery person with big brown eyes staring up at me. She was actually more than pert; she was beautiful-but her orange, white, and blue uniform, which included wonderfully fitting navy blue shorts and a baseball cap, made her look quite pert. She had shoulder-length brown hair pulled through the hole in the back of her cap to form a ponytail that swung from side to side as she moved her head. Her dark skin, which I first noticed on her muscular legs, seemed to be her natural skin tone rather than tanned. Her face was kind and soft, with features that reminded me of Bambi. Though Bambi was a boy, and apart from the muscular build of her body and the uniform that covered it, or at least part of it, there was nothing boyish about her at all-at all. Her face was flawless, with the one exception of her slightly crooked nose, which apparently had been broken. However, it made her all the more attractive.

She looked confused as I handed her the money and seemed to take it more out of reflex than anything else. I took the box from her and realized why she looked confused. It was a parcel and not a pizza. The oversized blue block letters on its side read QVC, and then I remembered.

Sometimes late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I would lie on my old green vinyl couch and flip through all the channels for hours- the exciting life of a bachelor. Last Friday, as I flipped past the QVC home shopping channel, I saw the IBM Thinkpad sub-notebook computer at an unbelievably low price-on their easy-pay plan. The easypay plan was a wonderful plan whereby one-me, in this case-can buy things that one cannot otherwise afford.

“Actually, this job pays very well. All I need is your signature,” she said with a notable measure of amusement.

“I’m sorry. I was expecting a pizza,” I said, a little unnerved by such a stupid mistake in front of such a beautiful woman.

She handed me the pen and electronic clipboard that required my signature as she cut her eyes toward me and flashed me a quick smile. As I signed the pad, I sensed her staring at the round pink scar on my left oblique and long, thin white scar across my chest. I looked up at her.

She looked away. “Pizza, huh? You one of those health-food freaks? I bet you have a Sony Walkman and one of those nifty little exercise bikes, don’t you?”

After I signed the pad, she attempted to decipher what I had written on it. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of poverty coming from Phase I of Prairie Palm. The sounds of poverty were those of people-people with time on their hands and not much else. Children yelling and laughing, the revving of automobile engines, and the loud distorted music of cheap car stereos and boom boxes swirled together into the sad and badly mixed sound track of life in the rural South. The only artist my ears could discern was John Mellencamp, which justified the volume. Appropriately enough, it was an acoustic version of his tribute to life in a small town.

I was born in a small town and I live in a small town. Prob’ly die in a small town. Oh, those small communities.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have introduced myself. My name is John Jordan.”

“Why?” she asked. Her severe expression made me feel as if I had said something wrong.

Educated in a small town. Taught to fear Jesus in a small town.

Used to daydream in that small town. Another boring romantic that’s me.

“Why, what?” I asked.

“Why should you have introduced yourself? I’m just delivering a package. This isn’t a social call or anything,” she said. She seemed annoyed. “You’re not making a play for me, are you?”

“Well, I’m just saying it’s polite, and you know . . .”

“Relax. It’s perfectly all right. I’m sure a man in your profession introduces himself to nearly everyone he meets, whether they want him to or not. What are you, a priest? Wait until I tell my friends I was hit on by a priest.”

For about a second I couldn’t figure out how she knew, and then it dawned on me that my clerical collar still hung around my neck.

But I’ve seen it all in a small town. Had myself a ball in a small town. Married an LA doll and brought her to this small town. Now she’s small town just like me.

“I’m the chaplain at Potter Correctional Institution,” I said touching my collar.

“Oh, I see,” she said with a tinge of what seemed to be embarrassment for me. “I make deliveries over there sometimes. Big place.”

I made a mental note of that.

No I cannot forget where it is that I come from. I cannot forget the people who love me. Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town. And people let me be just what I want to be.

“My brother, Stan, is a Methodist preacher. He says that chaplains aren’t real ministers. He says if he ever can’t make it as a pastor, he knows that he could always become a chaplain.”

“I’m a real minister,” I said, the wounded child inside showing through my voice slightly.

“Relax. I’m just kidding.” She turned to head back down the rocks and pebbles that served as my driveway toward her big colorful Federal Express truck that matched her uniform. The rhythmical blinking of its flashers- slightly slower than my heart-had a hypnotic effect on me.

I was just about to ask for her name and maybe even her number when Ernie sped into the driveway, jumped out of his car, and ran to my doorstep, where I was still watching her in amazement.

Got nothing against a big town. Still hayseed enough to say look who’s in the big town. But my bed is in a small town. Oh, and that’s good enough for me.

“Sorry I’m late, JJ. Uncle Sal’s getting slower and slower,” Ernie said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Sal’s pizza is still worth the wait.” I looked at him only momentarily and then back with the eyes of a hunter towards Bambi. She had disappeared inside the truck. Ernie had seen her too. He was trying to hand me the white pizza box in his left hand with little success. I wanted to look at my future just a little longer first.

“Do you want the pizza or the pussy?” he half-whispered.

“What did you say?” I asked as I dug into my pocket for the pizza money with one hand and slapped him on top of the head with the other, knocking his cap off in the process and revealing a shock of black tangled curls roughly the texture of Ernie the puppet’s hair.

“I said, that will be eight dollars and eighty-nine cents,” he said as he handed me the box.

I was still feeling around in my pockets for the money when I decided to take one more glance at the truck. She was standing in the opening on the passenger’s side waving Ernie’s money in the air.

“This one’s on me, Preacher. I need the tax deduction,” she said.

“Thanks” was all I could say. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would have had a very nice buzz going by this time of the day and I could have come up with a better response than “thanks.” I always found that I had plenty to say once liquor had removed my inhibitions. I used to be able to charm the pants right off of them, although not this one I suspect. Recovery has its disadvantages too.

Ernie ran down the driveway and across the road to her truck and got the money faster than I thought possible. They exchanged a few words, laughed, and then she drove off. I was instantly jealous. As Ernie crossed