A MIRACLE ON WALNUT STREET

Jesse James, an outlaw, stood in line. Dust from the rocky lowland trail clung heavily to the folds of his clothes. A small grey cloud drifted as he pulled a soiled bandanna from his shirt pocket and wiped dirt from the corners of his eyes. Rubbing a gaunt, unshaven face with his hand, he stared intently at the counterhand.

Fluorescent lighting above the checkout counter washed the clerk's pale, rounded features with an unflattering yellow cast. The little man employed a habitual giggle just loud enough to distract or annoy. He fussed unnecessarily, plump sausage fingers fluttering nervously above the register keys.

Moving slowly with the line, the outlaw gazed about him. Losers and loiterers, pompous and pious, were all around without direction or resolve. None here were marked with dignity or touched by destiny; neither friend nor enemy in sight worthy of salute. Noise ebbed and flowed with cresting waves of inane gossip. Snatches of muted conversation were somehow reassuring, connecting him briefly to the small stream of humanity that trickled slowly by aisles and counters towards the door.

Jesse faced the clerk. His left hand held a bottle of cheap red wine as his right hand lightly caressed the grip of an old break top pistol inside the waistband of his pants.

The counterhand found reprieve in a sudden moment of quiet stretching, like an ocean between living and dying.

He grinned happily, his chubby face alive with pleasure as he methodically counted change from the outlaw's last ten-dollar bill. Jesse caught a reflection of innocence in the smile and indulged himself in his decision to spare a life. Unaware of anything beyond his small domain, the officer of wines, spirits and groceries continued with cheerful banter as the outlaw moved to the exit.

Peering through the noonday glare, Jesse shaded his eyes against unexpected brightness.

Beyond parked cars filed in orderly rows, a raised knoll with trees and bright manicured grass promised shade and rest. He sat, propping himself against a tree. With legs drawn up, he pulled an old stained hat low to cover his eyes.

Settling into a comfortable position, the outlaw opened his bottle and drank.

Within the hour, he jerked awake from ragged sleeping and slowly pulled into a sitting position. Another long, comforting draught swallowed from the bottle as he remembered the morning's events. For many years, booze stood as a buffer against normality and boredom. Of late, excessive drinking had become a needed liniment to soothe the time he spent between waking and sleeping. So it was today. Another empty bottle marked the transition from morning to afternoon.

The last mouthful of wine was swallowed against sudden rising nausea. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, choking back familiar sickness until relief came. The sweat felt cold on his brow in the midday Texas heat.

Jamie stood unsteadily for a few minutes. The wine he had recently swallowed lay sour in his gut. Moving out from his grassy bed, then stumbling slowly along Seventeenth Street, often steadying himself against walls and trees. At Seventeenth and Walnut, he paused again before sitting on a low ornamental garden wall.

Shading his eyes against the afternoon glare, he gave thanks for his only friend, the outlaw Jesse James. He always appeared for him in times of stress or pain. More frequently of late, it seemed.

Jesus Christ, redeemer and soulful-eyed Saviour, stood suddenly before him. Jamie dropped from the wall to his knees, spread both arms wide, and bowed his head, thankful to find redemption so unexpectedly. Jesus spoke slowly with somber intonation, gazing down in sorrow upon another wandering soul searching for truth in a cruel world of darkness.

" Jamie, Jamie. Obviously, our last conversation meant nothing to you. Once again, I see you fucked up, crawling along the god dammed sidewalk and behaving like an asshole. I think this is the third time in as many days someone has called in a complaint about you." Jamie heard those words from his Lord and felt the sounds of admonition like scalding rain upon his skin.

Lifting his eyes he saw Saint Peter on his left side, Jesus Christ at his right. Without warning, he was held beneath his arms and raised to his feet. Hard, burning steel hands left smoldering holes in his flesh.

Peter spoke. " Listen to me jack off. This is your last warning. One more call, and you're gone, you hear? Three days in the fuckin tank. I will personally see that your stay will not be a happy one. I don't give a shit if you decide to kill yourself, but I do care that you do it in a public place."

They left as suddenly as they had appeared-silent and magnificent, with absolute authority.

Saint Peter with the fiery eyes appeared again.

"Here, go to Jabbies. Get a coffee, straighten up for a while." Grasping his wrist, the archangel of the Lord forced a glowing parchment into his hand. "This is for that fresh start you're going to make for me today, eh!"

A mile or so away, Fat Girl and the white trash trailer bitch moved with their latest haul. All groceries were properly positioned in their shopping cart. Some smaller items were paid for, and others were liberated from the local supermarket stockpile. The girls had about half a mile to go on the miserably hot street before reaching the sanctuary of Amberlight.

Amberlight apartments stood at the far end of Walnut Street. A recent newspaper article described the ten shabby buildings that were Amberlight apartments as "an affront to our community."

For many years, the seedy block of clapboard dwellings had withstood buffeting from self-serving newspaper columnists and pompous provincial politicians. Every outraged voice claimed to represent "community interests."

Actually, Amberlight apartments were a community in their own right. Within those decrepit boundaries, many a rogue and misfit found shelter. Blending perfectly into the ramshackle hub of humanity was the painter Jamie Walcott, Fat Girl, and the bitch.

Jamie was a gifted artist. Ragged, paint-dappled clothes covered his lanky frame. A wide-brimmed straw hat often concealed his face but never diminished the light behind his bright, hopeful eyes.

Amberlight afforded him a tiny kitchen and two small rooms. An old sleeping bag served as his bed. He would retire to either room when sufficient space was available between sketches, paintings and frames.

A small iron pan boiled, fried, stewed, or baked any edible scraps of convenience. It was occasionally cleaned when flavors conflicted noticeably.

Life was not easy for Jamie. His artistic soul burned with a driving passion for painting and drawing.

In conflict, an equally pressing need to pay rent followed at his heel like the depressing shadow of a relentless creditor.

This specter of responsibility was usually held at bay by a liquor bottle, sometimes by the shade of the outlaw Jesse James.

To address rent paying and eating requirements, Jamie would undertake unskilled and menial labor. He would also teach at the local college. Either occupation was given equal prominence but always depended on his recent intake of booze. There were about twenty occupants of Amberlight apartments at any given time. A few of the transient renters claimed to have found a permanent home, and it was to their home that Fat Girl and the trailer bitch made their way.

"Their way" led to the end of Walnut Street, undoubtedly passing a reborn Jamie Walcott again. Fat Girl spoke with some concern. "Thought they were going to haul the poor old bastard away this time."

Bitch ran her fingers through stringy blond hair and shook her head. "He ain't really old. About 50, maybe a few years either way."

"Well, let's ask him then. He ain't going nowhere in a hurry," Fat Girl replied.

Jamie raised his arm, forced himself to straighten cramped fingers and read a few words from his parchment of salvation. A five-dollar bill was twisted into a crumpled wad, glowing with unmistakable righteousness.

"Hey, babe. How old you?"

Jamie focused with some difficulty upon the familiar rotund outline from whence came this insolent question. He mentally processed the implications for a while. Brother Frank died somewhere about 1915. Jesse, shot down by Bob Ford, must have been 30 years earlier at least. Perhaps 140, then. So, what the hell was he doing here talking to two disreputable Walnut Street nightwalkers?

He closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds to restructure a kaleidoscope of confusion into meaningful reality.

"40," he replied, "40 years old. That was this morning, though, my sisters. This afternoon, I was reborn by the infinite grace of the archangel and sweet Jesus Christ himself. Behold a sign." He held aloft the five-dollar bill.

"We thought them two cops was going to throw your shabby ass in the can," said the bitch; not at all impressed at the sight of his five-dollar ticket to salvation.

"I stood," replied Jamie ", In the shadow of my Lord, Insulated from the deceit and cunning of my enemies."

"Well, excuse us. We just thought you was drunk again. For sure didn't realize that Jesus was in the middle of savin you."

Jamie ignored the Fat Girl and smiled indulgently at her unseemly comments.

"I will," he said, "proceed to Jabbies, purchase a cup of coffee or two, then return to the Amberlight apartments.

Upon entering my home, I shall cast myself down upon my knees to give thanks for the blessing of my rebirth. I will pray earnestly for you troubled ladies and ask that a miracle of forgiveness be bestowed upon both your scaly bimbo heads."

He heard their loud, derisive laughter and scornful comments. At that moment, the ghost of Jesse James appeared at his side.

From the corner of his eye, Jamie saw the outlaw's right hand move slowly to a well-worn pistol holstered at his waist.

Simple, well-practiced movements. His face betrayed no signs of anger.

A few thoughtless words from the trailer bitch probably saved both women from sudden death on that hot paved sidewalk.

"A miracle," she said, "yeah, show us your miracle, Jamie; ask God to give us a buck or two right now."

"Make it ten, and you can come home with me, baby," Fat Girl said, giggling foolishly.

"Sheet! Honey, make that a twenty, and we will both come home with you," added the bitch.

Jamie closed his eyes against their blasphemous laughter. Perhaps his five dollars would persuade both of them to not accompany him anywhere.

He remembered his messiah, thought upon those wondrous miracles of Jesus, and asked earnestly for a sign.

"Not for me though, dear lord", he entreated. "As you know, I am already a believer since early this afternoon. I ask for these poor hapless whores now standing before me to receive a sign that they may repent and find such joy as I have."

He recalled the miracles of his savior from childhood Sunday school teachings. Feeding a multitude on the shores of Galilee. Walking upon the waters. Transforming water into wine. Great happiness borne of sudden enlightenment slowly washed over Jamie. Here was revealed a true sign given to him from above.

Upon that dirty, dusty Walnut Street sidewalk, a supernatural event of astonishing proportions was revealed there.

Here was an endorsement of ancient biblical truths-an unforgettable sight for all who witnessed the miracle. Jamie opened his eyes and gazed upon Fat Girl and the bitch.

He smiled with serene understanding and spoke softly to his audience.

"Very well then. It is given for you to see my two sad, sorry sisters. Here is a new direction for you to follow and then dedicate with great fear unto the Lord. Repent disgraceful daughters of dirt and find peace." His eyes rolled towards the clouds.

In one graceful movement, Jamie turned on his heel, unzipped his pants and pissed with great satisfaction against a slender flowering cherry tree growing from the sidewalk. A stream of pale yellow urine curved, splashing brightly against the tree trunk. His voice rose to a bellow, inviting the attention of several pedestrians.

The sisters of shame were struck dumb at the sight of this revelation. Both women stood silent and amazed at the sound of his voice. Jamie addressed the rapidly growing throng.

" Before a great multitude, Jesus himself turned water into fine wine, so then by all good grace have I now turned fine wine into water " Behold!"