Wine and Revelry

Agave's drinking was tearing her son Stephen Pence apart.

Joanne from down at the Oceanview Bar and Grill would have called Stephen out of respect even if he were not the Bethesda County sheriff. She was older than thirty and owned a business, separating her from the other forty-nine-and-a-half percent of voters who opposed, even if in keyboard warrior fear, the law and order Stephen had brought to the once cutthroat crossroads of drugs and human trafficking.

"Hey, Stephen. I'm glad I caught you," Joanne said when he answered his personal phone.

"Is it Mom?" Stephen asked.

"Yes. Um. She hasn't been here in a while, and, ya know, she's had a few, and--"

"I'll be right down there."

"Wait! Wait! If you have anyone with you--"

"I don't, but I'm on my way."

"You need to know," Joanne said, "before you get here that she's made herself pretty unpopular down here. My day-drinkers don't really love the new bar or its clientele, if you get me. They know she's a regular up there, and--"

"I get you," he said. "I'm on my way, and I appreciate the courtesy call."

"Yes, sir."

Like many of the girls in the five-hundred-student high school, Joanne had gone out on dates with Stephen Pence, the most prominent athlete and the valedictorian of the 2009 Bethesda County High School graduating class. Still, she didn't find it weird to call him "sir." He was the kind of athletic that allowed him to be one of the best in any sport, and he was the kind of intelligent that never allowed imagination to question his resolve. Ultimately, Stephen married Chrystine, who seemed to like yellow wallpaper and who had become more of a lockbox spouse than a trophy wife.

A reveler wearing a dozen or so bandanas bumped into Stephen on the sidewalk.

"Sorry, Sheriff. Going to the carnival?"

He, she, and/or they and his, her, and/or their companions didn't wait for an answer. They laughed, some tipping up their wineskins, as they headed toward the end of the street where a trail would take them up Mount Feral. There, Stephen's cousin Victor Godfrey had erected a carnival of debauchery, as rumor had it, on the outskirts of Sheriff Pence's jurisdiction.

"Soon, there's going to be more people on top of the mountain than in town."

Stephen looked at the revelers, unable to tell if they'd said that or if the idea had fully formed from his own thoughts.

The doors to the bar were already jammed open for Stephen. He could see a purple line dancing toward the frosted glass in the foyer. Passing the innermost threshold, he saw the dancing purple line transform into his mother backing toward the door, still jawing at a rather loyal segment of the voting public. Her purple shirt advertised the new bar up the street.

"OK," Sheriff Pence said as he stood quickly between his mother and the seven or eight bar regulars, "I'll take this from here. Thank you all."

His mother slammed his arms down when he tried to turn her around.

"I'm not going anywhere. They can't…."

Her voice was drowned by the more popular opinions:

"You want to wear that shit, you can…."

"...we don't need any of your…."

"You woke in the wrong bar!"

And laughter.

Sheriff Pence looked halfway over his broad shoulders. "I said I have got this, and I said 'Thanks.'"

He turned back and looked straight into his mother's eyes. She turned away and exited through the frosted-glass foyer.

"Thank you all," Sheriff Pence repeated. 

Most of the patrons mumbled acceptance, wrapped loosely in pity. 

One guy from out of town, of course, had something to prove. "Later, you can get your mother out of that demon's bed the same way." 

The guy looked around and was, first, surprised that no one was laughing. He was, then, surprised that the crowd, even the woman who'd brought him, had turned from him. Mostly, though, he was surprised by the quick look at Stephen Pence's haymaker. Had he been conscious, he would have been more surprised that no one returned to pick him up off the floor.

Stephen looked to apologize, but Joanne assured him that no one in the voting public would have wanted him to handle such an insult any other way.

"Are you sure?"

"Go take care of your mom," Joanne said as both a friendly assurance and as a request to keep his mother from returning to her bar.

###

Stephen took his mom to bed. She passed out as soon as her head had been reclined toward the pillow. Stephen made sure she had a bottle of water beside the bed and headed back to the office. Based on the way the staff looked at him as he entered the station, he knew what he'd find in his office, and sure enough…. Transitioned Teresa sat behind the sheriff's desk with Teresa's heels cooling on his metal-topped desk.

"You know," Teresa said, "you're really getting to be a drag."

"I'm going to have to ask you to trade places," Stephen said.

Teresa spoke with a thick Southern accent that was real at its core and exaggerated in its bloom: "I did." 

Teresa's love for all things Margaret Mitchell and Teresa's dark skin seemed to be the only feature that Teresa kept after "a reset," which is what Teresa called the transition. Even Teresa's name had been chosen as an anagram of "a reset."

Stephen waited patiently.

"Fine," Teresa said. Teresa shimmied Teresa's shoulders and head, flirting or pretending to flirt with Stephen--even Teresa didn't know Teresa's intentions.

"How can I help you, Teresa?"

"First of all, like I've said before, you can call me ma'am like you call all the other ma'ams ma'am, and--"

"Yes, ma'am," Stephen said, removing his low-profile Stetson and setting it on his grandfather's old typewriter. "How can I help you, ma'am?"

"You, sir, are a fine, upstanding cliché if I ever did see one. --and second of all," Teresa continued, "I came to help you." Teresa was a mystic or a psychic, depending on which term conjured more scratch at any given moment. To those within Teresa's community, Teresa was a prophet; to those outside, Teresa was an indulgence. "You seem distressed ever since your cousin came to town."

"He will leave soon," Stephen said.

"I think he thinks he likes it here."

"He'll get bored just like everyone else when he sees his brand of nonsense is unwelcome in Bethesda County."

"There's plenty of room on the shelf for everyone's brand of nonsense," Teresa said. "Variety is such a lively spice," Teresa said as Teresa pulled a black book from Teresa's oversized clutch and set it on the desk. The book had a black faux-vellum cover and a mystical heft.

"I am not a believer in your voodoo, and I have…."

Teresa flipped open the book, revealing a combination of red and black ink on thin, almost transparent pulp.

"Deuteronomy," Teresa said, "chapter twenty-five versus eleven and twelve."

Stephen found Deuteronomy as fast as Teresa knew he would. He read it.

"So if a man and his neighbor get in a fight," Stephen summarized, "and the man's wife tries to break up the fight when she….um…."

"...taketh him by the secrets," Teresa quoted. "That's right, you shy little sheriff, you."

"If the wife does that, the men should cut off her hand and feel no pity. So you think someone is going to try to cut off your hand or someone's hand--?"

"I'm not the wife, you silly gander. You are. Read your Bible. People hate their rivals less than they hate those that refuse to let them play. You and your cousin seem to want to grab people by their secrets--you, only metaphorically, of course. You love to protect the peace, and he lusts to smash it. He wants revenge, and every move you make will fuel that fire."

Stephen's chair suddenly seemed smaller than the chairs on the other side of the desk. In fact, the desk seemed to have switched sides.

"When he left, his mother and my mother were friends. Everyone was happy until he willed himself to want more."

"His mother was happy because being the star fucker brought her an envious infamy, not to mention conspicuous hush money. Being the son of such brought only stigma."

"She couldn't have been too happy," Stephen said. "But the family did everything we could."

"Your grandfather, when he was long in the tooth, sent Baby Victor away to save Mother Melanie from being depressed."

"He was obviously right. She was depressed. Ultimately, she killed herself."

"That makes him obviously wrong, though, doesn't it? Your grandfather's high moral ground has purposed many crosses." She pointed at the book: "Second Corinthians."

"He established this county from the desert dust."

"Then, you made it a garden worth living in. And that's why I like you--we like you. Even my community feels safe here. That's why we came here. Variety may be the spice of life, but nobody wants their lives peppered with chaos. We just don't want to see you get your hand cut off grabbing at your cousin's bulbous secrets."

"What makes you think I'm going to…? Why do you believe I will try to inhibit Victor's actions?"

"Because," Teresa said, "people try to destroy in others the desires they cannot control in themselves. No matter how great a surgeon you become, you can never be your own cardiologist." Teresa stood and made a heart with Teresa's index fingers and thumbs. "Bethesda needs you, Sheriff," Teresa said as Teresa opened the door to leave the office, "both your strength and your patience, your mercy and your shame."

Only then did Stephen notice the duffle bag sitting beside his chair. The bag itself matched the nondescript bag Teresa clutched under Teresa's arms with the militant care someone would take with a heart ready for transplant.

"Wait! What's this?"

"Any basket case can climb the mountain in the desert," Teresa said, "but if you want to talk with The Brush Fire, you better dress the part."

"What makes you think…?" Teresa had walked out of the office. "Wait! What makes you think I'm going anywhere near Mount Feral?"

He heard only Teresa's laughter in the hallway and/or in his head as he pulled the purple robes from the duffle bag. 

###

Sheriff Stephen Pence waited until dusk to take off his clothes. He'd locked the door and locked up his M&P, but when he looked in the closet to find his civilian clothes--heavily ironed khakis and a three-button short sleeve shirt--he found only empty hangers. Even his personal EDC, a Taurus Judge, had been taken from the shelf above. He had no idea why Teresa had taken these items, but this answer--like so many of its kind--would be dancing on the mesa at the top of Mount Feral. He could choose to appear as the local sheriff or to take Teresa's advice.

Stephen had driven his personal truck to the second level of the mountain, but the last half mile had to be walked as the road's grade grew steeper and the solid rock devolved into loose rock and then to dust. In fact, the road itself had been a determining factor when the cult that erected buildings atop the mountain abandoned its original compound. Additionally, the sect had gained enough money and clout to become a proper religion and, therefore, no longer needed to brave the ascent.

Even though the temperature had dropped with the setting sun, Stephen felt sticky, sweating into the purple silk robe, but the olive green slacks ballooned away from his skin, offering a disquieting comfort and a dubious confidence. The mask he'd found in the bag, however, was too hot, so he carried the false face as he ascended the side of the hill.

The pulsating pounding of thunderous tones drummed into Stephen's ears as he approached the top. He could see the sun shimmering off the red earth as the land tabled off. He reached his hand forward to steady himself until his fingers felt the flat ground and the setting sun lingered on the revelry above. 

A group of drummers and horn blowers yawped a polyrhythmic pulse from a make-shift stage as revelers completed altering rotations with bandanas, banners, and wineskins around the players' platform. More torches were lit as the light faded, faster now, and faster as the rhythm chased the retreating sun. The masked dancers, mad with adrenaline and dressed in a motley of rags, wrapped long, slim green ragged cloths like vines around the stage, and when the music reached its full frenzy, they sprinted unable to keep step and equally unable to step out until, as if from some curtained cue, the music abruptly stopped and the dancers leaped to the ground. The circle of musicians bowed slowly forward as a slim figure stood like a stigma from a bloom.

The crowd gasped in awe, seeing Victor Godfrey standing erect, not in his customary purple and olive green garb, but rather in khakis and a three-button shirt. A dark black veil draped from a circular crown made of vines so covered his face that some folks doubted Victor Godfrey's authenticity. 

Holding a bullhorn to his façade, Victor proclaimed, "Our time, hiding in this darkness, has come to an end."

Holding up the Taurus Judge revolver, the veiled Godfrey shot twice into the heavens. "Bethesda has denied my rightful heritage for over thirty years, forsaking me in shameful exile, but I stand now before you--with you--opposing our good cousin's tyranny."

The crowd's murmur rose in a fearful confusion that crescendoed into an insane resolve.

Holding the Taurus with both hands high above his head, veiled Victor released two more shots into the moonlit firmament, quieting the sobering crowd. "While every polis around us prospers, we uphold archaic values that are forced upon us by a spartan sheriff who narcissistically revels in his gloomy governance."

The audience, relieved by the festival's jubilant tone, pulled full wineskins from their belts and held them high in agreement.

Holding his wineskin high with his left hand, Victor poured the wine into the veil, filtering what would pass and allowing the rest to run down his chest.

Starting with the staged drums and the crowd's hum, the vine-like cloth was uplifted and the dance was resurrected. The intoxicating power pervaded all that heard the pulsating prayer--all save Stephen Pence, who's sober anger swelled as he, unknowingly, donned the mask and approached the stage. Having been anchored for the duration--of this evening and of his life--by a civic duty and a familial pride, he had been motivated to act by the betrayal of the people he and his family had fought to protect. He knew Victor was right: Bethesda County had pretended to love Stephen out of fear, but for his cousin Victor, their common love had transcended the people's lucid fear. 

They chanted Victor's name, more and more.

The drums beat, and the horns blew, louder and louder.

The moon's rays lit the elevated stage, brighter and brighter.

Stephen approached slowly, closer and closer

Stephen's own feelings drowned in the sensual excess as the numbness buried his conscience. No one, including Stephen, acknowledged Stephen as his pending presence parted the crowd. Confused by his cloaked persona, the people closest to the disguised sheriff lifted him to the stage. He stood there facing his cousin for the first time in his life.

For the first time in his life, Victor Godfrey faced, what for all intents, was himself. Victor pointed the Taurus Judge at his purple-robed cousin.

Holding the pistol steady, aiming at Stephen Pence's head, Victory sensed the confusion in the crowd as it mirrored, in a sense, his own. "It appears," Victor said into the bullhorn, "that we have a sacrificial volunteer. We will tear this bull limb from limb and toss him to the pigs below."

"No!" Unnoticed, Agave had ascended to the stage. "You are the bull!" 

In her rage, she charged the veiled Victor Godfrey, who pointed the Taurus Judge and shot his mother's sister as she reached for Godfrey. She fell at Victor's feet, and without caring whether his mother meant to defend or kill him, Stephen lunged at his cousin.

Having transitioned into the role of law and order, Victor pointed at Stephen, pulled the trigger, and heard only the click of a spent pistol. 

Victor Godfrey didn't know the Taurus Judge was a five-shot revolver. In fact, the crowd didn't know it either as they rushed the stage, knocking Stephen aside to tackle Victor in a frenzy that brought Victor Godfrey's life to a violent end. 

Stephen, himself--still dressed as Victor--lay inert on the stage until the crowd and the musicians receded to the ground, leaving only the bodies, Stephen Pence, and Teresa on the stage. Teresa helped Stephen to his feet as he rose slowly in the middle of the disordered instruments.

"He's OK!" 

"He lives!"

As the blood-soaked mob shouted their adoration at him, Stephen didn't wonder why Teresa had given Victor the pistol, and he didn't wonder if his mother wanted to save him or if she had been confused and had wanted to kill him. He also didn't wonder if the crowd loved him or the persona he had taken on. He simply raised both arms and allowed the adoration to rain on him like an ablution, cleansing him of the popular fear and anointing him in their pious love.

Teresa set upon Stephen's triumphant head the sinewy crown of vines. Teresa spun Stephen's mask to the rear of his head, exposing one face and maintaining the other, creating a monstrous Janus, a synthesis of nostalgia and progress.