Misplaced Ideology

“Lost in the rain in Juarez, and it’s Easter time too.” The lyric seeking a place to find acceptance as the temperature neared 100 degrees. The narrow road evaporating in the heat, the yellow dashes dictating compliance, meld together as oasis form in the undulating wafts from the tar, as they rise to add discomfort to a marginally blue sky.

The ocean no longer a promise but an illusion of itself, waits somewhere in the compartmentalized place in my mind where relief is no longer what you hope it to be, but has become a necessity as the ground is too hot to remain standing upon.

We seek shelter in the shade of an overpass that has had the good sense to remember the nights temperature differential and keep some of it for a time when the word, “hot,” has been disallowed by the Academy of Arts and Sciences, for no other reason than it could.

She has heard from her God, and I have agreed to accompany her to the place where it will all be revealed, should we care enough to believe. I am up for anything, as life grows shorter with each breath, and my ability to live under water has dissipated into the realm of non-gravitational pull. I am happy to provide encouragement as it costs little, and yet means so much, if not to me, to someone.

There are deserts, and then there are make believe expanses of sand, rock, and the occasional sage that flaunts its difference by simply being what it is, what it does. 

South Dakota, the land at one time no one wanted, so they blew up a mountain and found a four headed statue. People tell me they travel for days just to get a glimpse of it before following the Burma-Shave signs to wall drug, where they can buy a genuine replica of the four headed mountain they can take home with them. There is talk of another mountain being examined for the remains of a Native American Chief on horseback, riding to warn Custer that the white sale wasn’t until President’s day.

We are in search of a white cross on a hill top, that you can’t miss unless you aren’t looking. I ask her, “Why,” and she just answers, “Because.” I know better by now to ask no further as simplicity is a virtue you either have or you don’t. You can’t get it at Wall Drug; I’ve tried. 

Not being one for symbolism, or generally enamored by God’s in their own right, I find the adventure to be stimulating and morbidly uncomfortable. What if she finds what I’ve been looking for and is not satisfied, it is for her. Then, do I convert to belief in the unbelievable, or does she renounce the maker of illusions, that brought us to this place where rock appears to melt before our very eyes.

I struck up a conversation with a lizard, I assumed was not the “Him,” of hell fame. He was cordial enough, but kept asking what I was looking for. He couldn’t understand the fear I expressed in finding anything at all. He didn’t seem to be able to grasp the notion that I was helping someone else find salvation, as I really didn’t believe it would be all it was , "Cracked up to be." A colloquial expression from where rock melts and lizards speak.

She hadn’t said more than a few words since we left, and I was beginning to wonder if what she envisioned, was what she was envisioning. Sometimes, I have found that when you seek, you don’t always find, at least, not what it was you were looking for. Sometimes, you find something better.

There is a billboard on the interstate advertising, “Tasty Freeze.” A picture of an ice cream cone made from imitation ice cream and covered with artificial chocolate syrup made from corn. It provided little relief; the content. The billboard itself provided the degree of shade that can make all the difference when contemplating staking yourself to the ground and keeping track of how long it takes the ants to arrive. 

“There,” her words bursting through the dead silence, her finger pointing to the crest of a hill where a white cross stood against the peripheral sky, as though beckoning to us; well maybe her.

I dutifully followed, each step a victory, as defeat was so evident I had to pretend I was on my way to the oasis where chocolate was chocolate, and rocks didn’t believe in melting just to prove a point.

When I reached the pinnacle of success she was lying beneath the edifice with a smile on her face, and a rattle snake coiled discreetly near her left ear. I am fearful by nature, and even more so when danger is all but imminent, as I have forgotten how to pray.

I couldn’t help but wonder from the salvationist smile on her face, if she had not already left for the coast to meet her maker. 

I am not brave, mainly because I believe it is a dangerous quality that should be reserved for people jumping the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle, or attempting to save miss Fay from the clutches of a Kong intent on scaling a building, no doubt to obtain a better view.

But realizing my precipitous role in this extravaganza, I picked a rock from the parched ground, and hurled it with might of a seasonal breeze. I missed the intentional target, another rock, close enough to the snake to get its attention, and signal my dismay at its presence. It slithered, noisily rattling its retreat, which awoke my hiking companion from her exhaustion induced nap. 

I asked her how things were going, with her God and all. She replied, “About how you expected it to go. Non-believers, all ways do this to me.” 

I was in shock for a few infinitesimal seconds, after having realized she was a religious gigolo. A zealot, living under the guise of my hypocrisy. 

I told her about the snake, my gallant attempt to save her life, and the probability that the snake having been driven from beneath the feet of salvation, must certainly meant something, even to a non-believer.

She agreed, that although my attempt to coerce truth from the vestiges of a poorly formed ideology, did result in a miracle, even if only she could see it.

I agreed to be more open minded, and she agreed to stop at the “Tasty Freeze,” and see if imitation chocolate on top of imitation ice cream was all it was advertised to be. Sometimes God speaks to us in mysterious ways. Amen.           

This story is mostly true. The chocolate made from corn oil has not been verified by the Academy of Arts and Sciences.