The Road to Celestial

The road stretched ahead into the flatness.

Christie looked back at Despond; three churches, a saloon and a jail-house in the only dip in the landscape for a hundred miles. He spat in the dust, he'd been inside two out of five. Farmers and farmboys came from fields of wheat to sow wild oats and reap the whirlwind in those same two. Their wives, daughters and sisters accompanied them to the other three. Christie travelled alone, mos'ly. Less'n someone happened along on the road to Celestial. He'd been on the road for years. After leaving the holding cells in the 79^th Precinct in Brooklyn. Walk, ride, stay awhile. Stop for food and a waitress's smile. You could travel a long way on a wink from a red-head. He shifted the rucksack on his back. Only had one strap. He'd found it in a dumpster in back of a Walmart in Poughkeepsie. The old guy gave in without a fight even though he'd seen it first. Survival of the meanest, them's the rules, in the jail-house or on the road. Prob'ly most everywhere.

The blacktop was crumbling. There were holes in the road that would break a mule's leg and even a 16-wheeler might drive around them where it could. The road was wide enough to be called a freeway, 'cepting it didn' go nowhere. Christie shook out a last Chesterfield from a pack and tossed the crushed paper high. It rolled and bucked on the wind out into the plains, occasionally catching the eye of a bird, but not for long. He wondered what kind of birds they were. Some were black, some the colour of mud. There were no bright flashes of colour – not even white. They were as plain as the plains. He laughed. Maybe he'd said that out loud, he wasn't sure. Didn't matter. It would be a long day's walking. He wasn't going to ride in a saloon car or pick-up today. A rig or nuthin' and that's all she wrote.

But a Chevrolet pulled up alongside. A good, old-fashioned car with fins. It looked its age, but had no dinks or oxide paint. A man leaned out of the window, a preacher's collar around his neck,

'Going my way?'

'Whaur yuh goin'?' Christie coughed and spat out some of the prairie dust.

'Along a while. Morality's up ahead.'

'Naw, got no hurry today, Preacher.'

'Call me John, I got cold fried chicken and sodas.'

Christie got in. But he couldn't see anything up ahead, just the road and the horizon.

'So, gotta name?' The preacher looked over at Christie.

'They call me Christie, less'n they's looking for a fight.'

'Had a few fights, Christie?'

He took in the preacher's unbroken nose, and pointed at his own,

'A couple more than you, not as many as some.'

The man of God nodded and hummed a hymn Christie remembered from grade school. 'Nearer My God to Thee' that was it. If it panned out that way, jes' fine. He hoped they'd pull over for chicken and soda soon.

'Morality is it? I reckon that's where I'm headed today. You want to catch a ride further?'

The preacher smiled showing teeth as grey as tombstones.

'Reckon I could use that chicken and soda pretty soon, Parson.'

'We go by our names in my church. '

'Cain't call a church man by his name, just cain't.'

The sedan rumbled on. Maybe there was a knock in there somewhere. Christie guessed the Reverend wasn't much for doing his own tune-ups. He sure didn't drive fast. After a couple of hours when the sun was high overhead, Reverend John pulled over into the dirt at the side of the blacktop. There was a crunch as the white-wall tyres crossed the crumbling edge.

'Sustenance, fellow traveller.'

Christie watched the preacher leave the car and wander round to the trunk. He caught the man's eye in the rear-view mirror. He was smiling, eyes aglow as though the rapture was upon him. Christie opened the passenger door, went round to the trunk. Reverend John's hands were around the hilt of some Jap sword when Christie's chib went in under his ribs. There was no damn' chicken or soda anyhow. The tyres squealed as the Chevrolet moved away from the corpse. Morality, what kind of burg was called Morality? Christie spat out of the window and decided to find out.

Outside the town was a ranch. The cattle looked old and stringy. There wasn't much grass around. The gate to the rancher's land had a sign overhead. 'The Wicket Gate' it read, poker-work on a wooden board. A man astride a horse was looking down the road to Morality. Christie pulled up and wound the window down.

'Waitin' for someone?' Christie spat into the dust covering the blacktop.

'Mebbe,' the rider's hand stayed above the eyes straining to see to the horizon.

'Got any work?'

'Might have. What canya do?'

'Done mos' things. More n' some.'

'Uh huh. Might could be better for you in town. I on'y got cow work an' you don't look like you ever done any.'

Christie drove off.

The sign said “Morality Pop. 237” He thought he might change that number.