Birth of a Prophet
A swarm of sirens rush by. I stand in the middle of the street, wondering what will knock me down. And where. And how. But nothing hits me. One tall headlight squeals off my shoulder, peeling the outer layer of skin clean off. Feels how I’d imagine a shooting star would feel if it licked me on its way down. Life wants me alive. Some days I wake up knowing I’ll be lucky. Once the red lights flash out of view a green Prius brakes right in front of me. I watch a precarious stack of books and tapes tumble down from how hard the driver slams the brakes, a dull cascade of thumps barely audible over the traffic and the car groans. A thin guy in enormous orange sweatpants gets out. “Hey!” Hey yourself. “Get in!” No! I start running. He pulls me back with a sweaty hand around my wrist, whirling me around. It’s Lucy’s ex boyfriend. Fuck off. I glare at him. He lets go of my wrist one finger at a time. Shaking his head and mouthing something to himself, he gets back in the driver’s seat. Suddenly there’s no other cars on the road.
It’s getting late, so I walk back to my porch. A man on the street crushes beer cans with his feet like grapes. Full moon tonight. Once that meant something. In the moon’s fullness I felt the reassurance of love – love for humanity – all of it – the tender blue bruise poking at itself so it throbs with the pulse of the earth, whirling to the same tuneless melody each of us hums alone without ever realizing. It’s different tonight. In the moon I catch the evil eye of God. That’s the thing they never tell you. The purest love is indifferent to humanity. It’s the love of a roach secreting nectar off its hard amber back, waiting for the other to draw near. Have you ever seen roaches fucking? It’s the only thing the moon cares to watch. As for God, I can wait no longer. I look down at the dirt, where the bamboo shoots and green onions in my neighbor’s garden fidget discreetly. Tomorrow my neighbor will come down in his wifebeater and cut a stalk to use in a slow braised oxtail stew. He will beat his son then cook for him. They will eat side by side in silence. After his son goes to bed, the man will weep in his heart, fumbling towards gentleness without knowing what it is. The son will dream of bony fish marinating in brine. His father, eyes milky, blinded by cataracts, plucks the fish one by one from the sour sap with precision. In the years that follow, everything he dreams will come true.