Losing His Religion ©

“It’s not fair.” Chloe said. “Why does he have to stand outside the door?”

“Because that’s the way it is.” Chloe’s mother answered.

“Well it ain’t fair, he drove us all the way down here.
He even knows the words to all the songs, but still he has to stand out there. It ain’t fair.”

“Isn’t. And I’m sure he doesn’t mind dear – Pay attention.”

“Is it because his bible got burnt up in the fire?”

“Certainly not! Now turn around.”

Chloe was looking over her shoulder at Mr. Prosser standing outside the door. He held his driving hat in both hands. Beads of perspiration glistened on his brow and tinted his shirt collar. Occasionally Mr. Prosser would wipe his forehead and throat with an overused front-pocket handkerchief and tug at the uncomfortable tightness of his tie. Mr. Prosser stood there in his dark colored suit and mouthed along as the others sang aloud. He gently bowed his head when the others lowered theirs and looked heavenward when he felt it necessary.

“Paul  preaches  there  is  neither  Jew  nor  Gentile,   neither  slave  nor  free,   nor  is  there  male  and  female.” Boomed the preacher.

“Ahmen.” Said Mr. Prosser from outside the church doors. “Ahmen.”
Mr. Prosser’s voice was solid and guttural.

On the drive home Chloe asked Mr. Prosser what he thought of the sermon but Chloe’s mother told her to hush up.
Her mother said she shouldn’t talk to Mr. Prosser while he was driving.
Chloe did as she was told and looked through the car’s side glass. She read the crippled marquee in front of 16th Street Baptist Church as they drove past – “sundays sermon – the love that forgives”. Chloe could see the front of the brick building was blasted away. The steps that led up to the heavy double doors were also missing. A group of men was standing near the road. Some of them had their shirt sleeves rolled up and their fedoras pushed back. Mr. Prosser threw up his hand and waved. The colored men waved back.

A static laced voice played through the car’s radio speakers.
“The blood of four little children is on your hands. Your irresponsible and misguided actions have created, in Birmingham and Alabama, the atmosphere that has induced continued violence  – and now murder…”

Chloe’s mother asked that Mr. Prosser switch off the radio. Mr. Prosser did as he was asked.

After he drives the pink skinned girl and her mother back to their big white house, Mr. Prosser will go down into his cellar room below the house to listen to the latest news about the church bombing. He keeps a tiny transistor radio next to his gray, iron cot. His room is clean but empty. A square card table and metal folding chair sit in the center of the room. A print of The Potato Eaters hangs on the white-washed wall above his cot. The picture is a melancholy reminder of his own difficult childhood. The reminder is more of a necessity than a desire.

Mr. Prosser rolled the car to a stop in the driveway and switched off the ignition. Chloe’s mother stepped out and gently pushed the car door to. Chloe leaned over the back of the front seat and dropped her bible down beside Mr. Prosser.

“You can have it Mr. Prosser.”

Looking back and down at her blonde curls, Mr. Prosser lifted the bible. He felt it’s warm, textured cover and fine, thin pages between his fingers. He unfolded the book to where the delicate tasseled bookmark separated the pages. Galatians, 3:28.

“For you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Mr Prosser read aloud. His voice barely more than a throaty whisper, but heavy enough to be rough and scratchy.

“That’s what the preacher talked about in church today.” Chloe said.
“About how all people are equal. But I was thinking since you had to stand outside, maybe they didn’t think you was equal Mr. Prosser. But I do Mr. Prosser. I think you’re as equal as the rest of them. That’s why you can have my bible Mr. Prosser, so they can see you are equal and then you can come inside the church too until your own church gets fixed up again, OK Mr. Prosser?”

Mr. Prosser closed the pages over the nylon marker. He smoothed his dry palm over the gold letters pressed into the cover of the book. He slowly turned the bible this way and that. He studied over it a minute before speaking.

“I can’t take your bible Miss Chloe.” Said Mr. Prosser in his deep, rich voice. “Besides child, I reckon it’s six feet of earth that make all men equal, not this here book.”

Chloe didn’t hear Mr. Prosser. She was already skipping towards her big white house where her mother was standing, waiting in the doorway.

The Ballad of Birmingham by Dudley Randall

The Man in the Yellow Hat ©

Augusto bought the pistol to shoot the pigeons off the front porch railing. The game warden said they were Grey Parrots and he wasn’t allowed to shoot them, but Augusto bought the gun just the same. As a boy, Augusto shot sparrows with a slingshot and bragged to his father when he had a credible kill. His father would rub the boy’s head and smile and tell him what a skilled hunter he would be someday. The parrots weren’t really bothersome to Augusto, but he liked that they were quick targets that he could shoot from under the shade of his front porch where he drank his whiskey. Sometimes Augusto would drink too much and fall asleep in a dirty, sweat-stained hammock that hung from the corner of the porch. The far end of the hammock was attached to a wooden post that was planted beneath the wide shade of a Mimosa tree in the dusty yard. The game warden, or the man in the yellow hat as he was called, warned Augusto about shooting the parrots, but Augusto cared about little and thought about less. Except George. He often thought about George and what a fun, quick target George would make.

Looking through an early morning fog towards an unseen Serengeti horizon, the man in the yellow hat sat for a long time on the edge of an oasis and listened to the sounds of the sanctuary at his back. The oasis had been silent moments earlier, but nature’s intuition was beginning to lead a pre-dawn symphony into harmonious jungle melodies. On one side of the man sat George, a chimpanzee. On the other side lay a pistol loaded with cartridge-fired tranquilizers. The man was cleaning a hunting rifle. The chimpanzee was pulling tufts of grass and putting the moist rooted ends into his mouth. The man in the yellow hat loaded a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle. He slid the bolt closed, reholstered the pistol, then stood to see if Augusto’s cabin might now be seen through the fog. It was. More than a silhouette of the cabin was now visible as the fog had lifted and the glare from the plains was beginning to shine through the thicket.

Augusto could be seen sleeping in the hammock in the yard. A corked bottle of whiskey lay in the dry earth beneath him. His shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his fat, sweat-shined belly. His crossed arms hid the pistol he used for shooting parrots.

Leboo, a single Maasai warrior watched Augusto from the bushy verdure. The local Maasai had come to the man in the yellow hat to express their excitement in seeing a lion near their village. The latest report was that the lion was seen near Augusto’s cabin. Misunderstanding the excitement for fear, the man assured the excited villagers he would take an early morning look around.

Spotting one another at nearly the same time, Leboo and the man in the yellow hat agreed with silent hand gestures to meet in the thinner foliage beyond the Mimosa tree.

“Let’s go George.” Said the man in the yellow hat.
The chimpanzee sprang to his feet and swiftly ran ahead of the man, across the dusty open, to the Mimosa tree. There was no time for the man to stop the chimpanzee. In seconds, George was beneath Augusto’s hammock holding the whiskey bottle. It didn’t matter, thought the man, George can take care of himself. Separately, the Maasai warrior and the man in the yellow hat continued to circle Augusto’s cabin.

With Augusto’s whiskey bottle in his grip, the chimpanzee noisily lifted himself into the lower branches of the Mimosa tree. Augusto woke with a start.

The man in the yellow hat was the first to see the lion. Its huge flat paws slowly, one by one, settled into the dust. Its solid shoulders were lowered. Its heavy head was up, level, inches above the earth. The lion crept steadily towards Augusto. From his vantage, the man in the yellow hat could see George, Augusto and the long crouching broad side of the lion.

Unaware of the lion that was nearly ready to gallop and leap onto him, Augusto cleared his head and trained his pistol on George.

“Finally.” Said Augusto.

The man in the yellow hat raised and steadied his rifle. His decision was made. The trigger was pulled. With an explosion, Whunk – the bullet found its home in the meaty gut of its target.

Heat simmer distorted zebras and fig trees in the distance. Grazing Wildebeest hardened like marble. Gazelles paused. Life on the Serengeti stopped for an instant, then carried on.