Hair Soup in Tupelo

*There are mentions of sexual themes.

Gorky sang a hymn at the altar of Saint Jude's Church in Tupelo, Mississippi. He was the only pale-skinned teenager in a congregation of African American churchgoers. His voice was ineffectual, and the choir kept sneaking glances when it cracked and whined. Patrice, the soprano, shot a vexing look, prompting Gorky to lip-sync the rest of the chorus. You're right, Patrice. I should banish myself to the fires of hell where my voice would serve as a torturing device. And so he held his tongue. Finally, "I will trust in the Lord" ended with sighs of relief. 

Pastor John Henderson took a handkerchief from the lectern. He dabbed his soaked eyebrow and urged the Sunday sermon to proceed. But before he spoke, Gorky leapt from the altar, running across the nave of Saint Jude's. His robes lurched over the marble floor like a seething ghost. This relieved the churchgoers in the aisle seats, fanning the foul heat to the heights of the vault. 

Near the entrance, Gorky flew into a dim archway, the floor stained with a mosaic of light. He burst through a heavy cast-iron door. Upon setting both eyes on the cornflower blue sky, he squinted on the stone steps; the morning was bright. Panting from the sprint, he chucked his robes onto the statue of Saint Peter the Apostle. They hung over his plaster head, blinding him to the sins of Tupelo. 

—

Sweat dribbled down Gorky's forehead. The July sun was a furnace in Mississippi, and he was thankful to be rid of his overbearing, holy garb. He checked his cell phone under the shade of a Sweetgum tree. The screen showed 9:01 a.m. Church bells from Saint Jude's chimed in harmony two blocks south. Pastor John won't be too happy... Gorky chuckled at the thought of the ascetic Saint Peter the Apostle with a robe on his head. He then opened a note app, and it displayed a short list of chores.

1. Sing in an African American gospel choir. 

He checked off number one. He then began to strip off his clothing. In a pile next to a bush he placed a Biggie Smalls T-shirt, along with casual surf shorts and Champion slide sandals. Gorky arched his neck toward the sky and smiled at the clouds. Let the Lord be kind today and keep me out of prison. He then cupped his privates and darted like a bolt across the street, in all fairness. Nude. 

—

A Tupelo bus rode past an old cotton mill with oyster bricks and torn windows. It skidded to a halt, a plume of dirt swelling at the tires. The door swung into the haze. It revealed a frantic figure, stripped bare on the sidewalk. The Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal shrouded his genitals. His bloodshot eyes scanned the countryside. 

"Boy, what in the hell? Why are you naked?" The bus driver's mouth stood agape, staring at the strange boy. 

"Oh God! Thank you so much for stopping! Listen, I know this looks crazy, but a couple of dudes just robbed me! A minute ago! They took everything! My cellphone, wallet, keys. Everything! I can't call the police. Can you help me? I need to get home. I live a couple of blocks that way, past Elliott Street.” Gorky peeked into the weather-beaten windows of the bus. It was empty. 

“— I don' know, man. I can lose my job. — Look, I'll call the police. Tha’ all I can do." The bus driver proceeded to take out his cell phone.

"I don't have time for that! You can't leave me like this! Please! Call the police on the way! I’m begging you."

The driver turned his head, hesitant while looking at the old train tracks down the road. 

“Alrigh', fine. But don’ be sittin' on my seats or I’ll throw you out.” 

"Thank you! You’re the best.” Gorky raced into the interior, and the bus drove off.

“Wha's ya name, son?" The driver dialed 911. 

"Louie Miller.” 

As they rode on, Gorky hid a cheeky smile as the wind blew dust into his licorice hair. 

—

Gorky's rear end shone in the sun as he raced through downtown Tupelo past the Lyric Theatre. He found the old Sweetgum tree and his stuff balled up beneath it. He took out his phone and opened the notes app to a list of chores. 

2.Ride a city bus in the nude. 

3.Eat soup without wearing a shirt, and garnish it with a hair from your waiter. 

Gorky dressed himself, relieved to have clothes on. To the south, he jetted off, back into downtown Tupelo. 

—

On North Broadway Street, in a deli across from the pharmacy. A rustic, run-down place with scraped hardwood floors. A crippled ceiling fan circulated the musty air. A heap of Elvis pictures and rock-n-roll guitars decorated the walls. It was a saloon where the old folk could loiter with a cup of coffee. They solved crosswords while observing people outside in a daze. The dampness from the kitchen, divided by a cotton partition, smelled like mold and wheat. 

Gorky sat at one of the tables by the window. The waitress wore a yellow-stained smock. She was four tables away, serving an elderly couple soup on a tray. He saw her side profile. She had long orange-peel hair tied in a bun and bulbous hips, buoyant as she walked in white sneakers. They squeaked on the wood. A dew of sweat tinged the freckles on her nose, and her arms were flabby and shook with lacklustre. Gorky waved at her. She saw him in the corner of her eye. 

"What can I get ya, hun?" She looked outside, dour at the sunshine. 

"I'll have the soup of the day." 

"It's a tortilla soup with black beans, jalapeños, cilantro, and grated cheese."

"That's fine."

She looked down at Gorky, her eyelids drooping. She grabbed the menu from the table. He stared at her hair, wondering and scheming a plan. She didn't notice. 

In a minute or so, she reappeared from the bowels of the kitchen, gesturing the partition to the side, with soup in hand. As she approached the table, steam wafted to the burnt ceiling. She placed it in front of Gorky. 

"There you go, hun. Can I get you anything else?" 

"No. I'm fine. Thanks." 

She turned around to leave to check on other customers. She took a couple of steps, her shoes blistering the floor. 

"Oh, miss. I'm sorry. — There seems to be a hair in my soup." A boy’s voice at the back of her head itched. The waitress turned in a tight loop. She moved toward the table in a calm and serene manner. Her thin nose lowered to the bowl, her eyes scanning the juniper paste. 

"I don't see no hair." 

"Look. Closer." Gorky insisted. 

She bent her body in half. Gorky's hand crept from behind as the waitress examined the soup with precision. His hand pulled at the back of her bow in a whip. She pulled back in a dart. 

"Oh! I'm sorry. Your hair got tangled in my wristwatch." Her eyes narrowed at the boy. 

“On second thought. There’s no hair. I'm seeing things." Gorky forced a pleasant smile. 

She turned around with a scowl etched onto her lips. She then disappeared behind the partition. In a cue, Gorky took off his Biggie Smalls T-shirt and placed a single strand of orange hair in the soup. He then lifted the bowl to his mouth and swallowed like a fiend. Soup dripped down his cheeks and onto his bare chest. He was an animal. He wiped his lips with a fist. 

He took a 5-dollar bill from his wallet, smacked it on the table, and left in a fly with his t- shirt in hand. When the waitress came back, Gorky was gone. An empty bowl of soup lay on the table with a tip.

—

Gorky ambled through the streets of downtown Tupelo, Mississippi. He belched a gas cloud of black bean soup, proud and uncaring of convention. The hot sun seared the pavement to a crisp. He checked his notes for the next chore.

   4. Feed a dog your blood. 

He then turned into a pet store, Furry Pete’s. The door creaked open, and a bell tied to its hinges clanged.

—

In an alley on Elizabeth Street, Gorky paced alongside a fence. His fingers brushed the wood in a playful manner. The panels had gashes in them, weather-worn. The white paint peeled off here and there, and individual pieces jutted out from the soil. 

Behind the fence, tall weeds grew. They billowed over the stack and breathed in zephyrs. A shadow followed the boy. Its dark glow cast periodic shapes on the dirt as he walked. The nameless dog barked with vigour. Easy, boy. I'm a friend. I brought you a gift. I bet you're hungry, aren't you? He was a big dog, a black pit bull. His muscles were tight and smooth. 

In Gorky's other hand, he held a can of chicken dinner, wet dog food. He bought it at Furry Pete’s Pet Store for 95 cents a can. He opened the aluminum top using a hunting knife with a sage grip. 

A metallic bowl lay by a hole. Claws or teeth had dug a trench by the fence. He dumped the food into the bowl. It slumped to the bottom as a blob of meat. This is it. Fast and clean. Don’t cut too deep. 

Gorky sliced a gash in his palm. It hurt like hell. Blood seeped through his fingers, crimson droplets fell onto the grass. He held his hand over the chicken meat. It soaked in. Bon appétit, little guy. A nice blood sauce for you. He wrenched the feast through the opening. As he peeled away, he heard the satisfaction of a dog, chewing. 

—

The late afternoon pressed on in downtown Tupelo. Gorky ate a Golden Dorsett apple by a 1940s Dodge pickup. It had a shabby brown metal shell. Some of it peeled off in corroded flaps. The hubs dug into the earth, and sun-dried ferns grew in their place. On a mound of dirt, corncobs lay in the cargo bed. Someone had left the heap-of-junk in a parking lot, behind a grocery store. The sun burnt it. 

Gorky checked his notes app.

   5. Make love to a harlot, and make her laugh. 

On Gorky’s left palm, he wore a handkerchief. When he removed it, the cut was shallow and dry, and blood spots soaked into the material. It still hurt like hell. He tossed the Rorschach into the trash. 

—

In front of the Lyric Theatre, Gorky sat on a bench with clammy fists. He heard the clicking of high heels on the pavement. At the sound, his ears perked up to the blue-velvet sky. 

She lulled out of the shadows on North Broadway Street. Her dirty blonde hair shone under the pink light of a marquee. She wore a black bomber jacket over a slim leopard-print dress. It coiled around her skin like a cotton snake.

“Hello, darlin.” Her voice oozed softness. She had rehearsed a cadence. It was sweetened but full of duplicity. It was an act. Her breath smelled like cigarettes and gin. “You look shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Gorky lied. 

They walked to her car. She drove a 1975 Ford Pinto, a butterscotch yellow. And it honked a klaxon. She would punch it with acrylic nails, galled at the stupid drivers of Tupelo. In the passenger seat, Gorky's licorice hair tumbled in a velvety wind. 

"Is this your first time?" 

"You mean with a hooker or in general?" 

She looked at Gorky sideways, narrowing one eye. 

"Sorry."

She took her time, peeking in the mirror to pucker her scarlet lipstick. 

"It's fine, darlin'. You can't imagine some of the things men say." 

—

On Green Street, an oak branch scratched the windowpane. Gorky's room was in the attic. The exposed wooden beams hung low in a triangle. Underneath the window, a small mattress clung to the floor with a lamp on the sheets. There was a writing desk with a Hermes 3000 typewriter. It had soft keys with a carriage glide that swooned like a fainting spell. A plastic fan whirred in staccato bursts by the machine.

A rugged La-Z-Boy sat in the middle of the room. It faced the window. On its leather upholstery, it held grimoires and notebooks in a junk pile. A rustic trash can stood by its leg, full of crumpled, throwaway papers. Some overflowed onto the dark, oily carpet. The walls were a patchwork of posters and gothic paintings. They were of famous horror writers, like Edgar Allen Poe. H.P Lovecraft. Shirley Jackson, and Stephen King.

Gorky and the Harlot sat low on the mattress. Her curvy legs stretched out on the rug. She had pale feet, and a torn piece of paper nudged her big toe. She picked it up, curious, unfurling the scrap. 

"Chapter 3 - Dorothy's Revenge…” she read. 

"Please don't..." Gorky pleaded. It’s trash. 

"Dorothy stood over Hazelblad, her ex-lover. She held a dagger over his head, as high as a lightning bolt. With cold eyes, she spoke. 'Death is the great lover we all need, Hazleblad. This is the end. I doubt you’ll be needing your bayonet.’ She plunged the blade into his bulging groin."

The fille-de-joie burst out laughing. "That's so funny! Are you a comedy writer or somethin' like that?”

"No. I write horror. It’s supposed to be troubling and dark.” 

"Oh..." 

Gorky fixed his gaze on the paper and grabbed it in a pinch. “Never mind that…” He crushed it in his palm; a drop of blood smeared the lettering.

“Just kiss me, darlin’”

—

It was midnight in Tupelo. A cold crept through Allen's cemetery. It prowled between tombs and the hollows of creaking oaks. Gorky stood by a stone, holding a pillar candle. Its flame cast a glow on a name: Benjamin Strutters. 1962 - 2013. I’m not here for you, Dad.

"I am that I am not!" Gorky shouted at the black sky. "To the master of infernal ceremonies, I see your beautiful face riding on a dromedary. I'm not afraid of the ghouls and demons that play trumpets and cymbals to announce your order. Come to me with your great voice. I make a vow to the house in the Northwest that I have accomplished all tasks. On this day, Sunday, July 12, 2015, I have made sacrifices in your honor. Now let me be a famous horror writer."