Jesus is My Only Song | John R. Mabry | High School

Derrel poured the last scoop of grubs into his mouth. His teeth squeezed the squirming insectiods until theiir tiny bodies exploded, sending a shower of cold juice through his teth. He relished them with his tongue, chomped the tough skin and tender entrails. He swallowed. As if the meal itself did not quench his dry throat, he walked over the dunes to the small shack that had been his home for so long. So long So long. Alone. So long.

Stepping inside, he rummaged through the debris, through the carpet-maggots, 'til he found his price: the 60-year-old bottle of cooking sherry.

This was indeed a day to celebrate, it was the 50th anniversary of his hermitage. The bottle smelled strangely of vinegar as he raised it to his lips. Half empty, already, he swallowed, adn swallowed again. As it danced over his tongue and surged thorugh gaps in his lips, he remembered when the bottle had been found, scattered among the stones on the shoulder of the highway. The highway. It pierced the soft brown skin of the desert with its endless black needle. Hard, black and always there. From the room of his shack he could se it. Waves of heat rising swiftly from its surface; the desert behind it wavered and flitted to and fro. But on the gorund, where he was now standing, it remained hidden, behind the enormous scrub which spotted the golden sea. Every once in a while a car passing on the highway would toss out something from the windows. It would bounce, blow, and finally it would be stopped by the scrub. Darrel sat under the shad of a new scrub, raised the bottle to his weather-hardened lips, and he relaxed. Stretching out, he dugg briefly in the moist sand directly under the scrub. A white grub-worm wriggled free of the sand. Quick as lightening, the old man snatched it, popped it between his cheek and gums, and felt it gently squirm. Squirm. Tickle-tickle, went his tongue. Squirm, squirm. Mash. Squirt. Mmmm.....

Click! Da-ooo, doo-wop, dadaa-doo wop... The old man dropped the bottle. The grup froze halfway in his throat. The rhythm forced his eyelids to droop slightly. His mind was caught in a forceful whirlwind--FLASHBACK: prom night, '58. Alice's white dress seemed to illuminate the darkness. His hand in hers. The high school swing-band--Da-doo, doo-wop, dadaa--doo wop... His friends and Oscar's zip gun. Laughing. Him, his friends, and a zip gun. His finger, the trigger, Alice, his date. Her face. Her scream. Her blood....exile.

It was an accident, he screamed in his head. I didn't have to run away. All would be forgiven and forgotten by now. That song can bring me back. His head was a flurry with thought. I must find the song, must find it, MUST FIND IT He quieted.

But if I get up to look for it now, I may waste all the time that it's palying looking for it among the scrub. And never hear it again, with the small chance of finding it's source, and playing it over and over. Time machine at his fingertips. Tape recorder or radio ro.... he could just sit here, and enjoy it while it was here, love it as it was, and taking the chance of never finding the source. He decided. He closed his eyes and swam deep in the melody. His feet tapping the silent sand. The tinny sound trebled and tickled his ear. A smile broke between gnarled lips. And the song was over.

His head played the tune over and over. Then he dashed to his feet, looking here, under a scrub, there under another. He raced towards the highway. Dust blew gently over its surface. It was empty. The shoulder showed telltale tracks, the chargin of a flattened tire. Imprint of shoes, imprint of auto--of radio. Doo-wop, went his head. A business card blew from its resting place in the golden sand. Darrel races after it, jumping over scrub, and rolling down dunes. He grabbed. The grease-stained card read boldy, "Oscar A. Applebee and Son, Attorneys at Law." He walked back to the shoulder, but the wind had blown the tracks away...