An Enlightening

When I was young I was foolish, and inhabited the town of Jackson. I
was made foolish by the very air of the place; it dulled emotion and
chewed common sense. It was a stealer of youth and one grew old quick,
but was it beautiful. There was an event that made me leave and this is
how I remember it.

It was a hot summer day in Jackson; leaves sweated into the
vindictively humid air that made voluptuous fruits pop their yellow and
red skins, and made angry honey bees want to suck on the sweet liquid
inside. The trees stood very still and quiet, waiting for heat to kill
them. The sun made the hazy Jackson days everlasting and tiresome, so I
had hidden myself away in the haven of the local bar whilst the birds
outside dropped for lack of moisture. The once lush and green scenery
had decayed quickly and morbidly, and the ants curled up in heavy
piles, dead and burnt. The streams dried to nothing whilst Mr Sun still
stood proud and noble in a brilliant sky.

Nature hated, but the people of Jackson celebrated the season
vigorously. Parties were held throughout the town; one day it was Lady
Coome's party, the next Ella Richmond's and then Jacob Anson's party.
Celebration was turn-based in Jackson, that way dispute could be
avoided. It was a small town with little to do, and so, as it often
happens in small towns, people occupied their time by harbouring and
nurturing spite. Lisa Jones, a ragged but respected elderly woman was
queen of this trade. No one was free from her hatred and her list of
grievances was long and petty. She hated Hattie Wilson, the local
nurse, with a passion only lovers have for each other, and she despised
Maya Perez even more. But her favourite hate, a hate that had grown so
strong and bitter it had nearly swung back to affection, was her hate
for the inhabitants of "yonder up over the hill."

Jackson was a small southern town framed by daisies and small hills
children called mountains. It was a tight community where knowledge was
gathered only from elders and peers. It was common knowledge and fact
that the town over one of the larger hills was full of no good nasty
so-and-sos. They didn't wash, their houses were dirty, their children
were ugly and their mothers were vicious. Not at all like the good folk
of Jackson. Those good church going folk who cleaned their windows on
Sundays, mowed their lawns on Mondays, dotted their I's and crossed
their T's. Hattie Wilson knew this, Maya Perez knew this, and I knew it
too.

It was the sweetest of southern towns, but was spiced with grudge and
grumble. Old, tired grudges from which the new ones spawned. No one
quite knew why the people from over the hill were hated so much, it
stemmed from an altercation even the elders were too young to know of.
But in Jackson your parents' grudge was your own, it was held in your
blood and you clung onto it possessively. It was in your great
grandparents blood, their great grand parents blood and so on and so
forth; their blood was your blood and that could not be ignored.

I sat in the bar working fervently to keep cool whilst light flooded in
through the glass door blurring my vision. The barman was busy with bar
things and had no time for chat, so I looked through the glass door to
see a figure walking toward the door. It was a she, I could tell, and
she was taking large guided steps in sandaled feet to cover as much
space as possible. I felt compassion as but a few moments ago I had
been faced with the same predicament.
Her walk was dainty though it should have been awkward, and the woven
hat she was wearing compiled with the heat of the sun made me
laugh.

"She's from up yonder you know." He (the barman) gave a nod to the
subject of my attention.
The words sent chills up and down my spine. Folks up yonder were
hideous creations God made when he was still young, like the play dough
models of a child with no comprehension of human form. Folks from up
yonder were violent things with quick tempers, so I shouldn't have been
surprised if she had a fantastic fit and tried to claw my eyes out. And
she probably worshipped at a voodoo alter and blessed her food with
chicken feet or something. She would probably rush greedily past me and
slip and make an idiot of herself: up yonder they were stupid and
clumsy. Damn it they even prayed (if at all) to a Jesus that was not
mine and was evil, with horns etc. I had a picture of that thing in my
mind; a thing even dogs would pity and I expected the exact image to
appear before me.

She walked more and more out of the haze of the sun and what I could
see was a figure that was not repugnant, but almost human and womanly.
She blocked out the hateful sun and placed a hand on the door, creaking
it forward. She entered the bar bringing with her idols and devils. I
felt tense hatred, searing strong. My Good God was on the right side,
so naturally whatever happened, I would come out on top.

The altercation did not go as I had hoped. In fact, it did not 'go' at
all. She slid past me with more elegance than a snake, pulled up a
stool next to mine and at once I was mesmerised. The hair was not the
mousy brown that should be expected from folks over the hill; the skin
was not caked with mud and creased with ugliness like it should be, and
she had all her teeth? A mouth full of white teeth? I forgot that I was
at war and introduced myself:

"Hello, how are you, I'm Jake."
"Hello Jake."

She seemed real, more than real. Extraordinary, lovely, marvellous and
all the rest. Even more, she shone with an intelligence brighter than
stars. I myself knew I was dim. I was not as dim the 'folks up yonder',
but I never possessed that bright spark that makes people envious and
defensive. She had it all and absolutely lacked in nothing. There had
been a short quiet period whilst I had my thoughts where she ordered a
drink and sipped it contently. I had seen the reservation of bar tender
to serve her; it was the same look I had possessed a few moments ago.
But she was&;#8230;different, and her heritage could be
forgiven&;#8230;

I knew what to say. I was supposed to say something along the lines of
"Do you come here often", though I knew the answer would be no;
flirting is just a matter of light conversation to mask a hidden sexual
agenda. Even as I opened my mouth to begin the well-known courtship
ritual, I knew it would not be the same. She spoke first, steadily and
directly:

"So, do you come here often?"

I answered "no" as the barman brought me my usual: a coke. I was far
too young at sixteen to be in a bar anyway, but the owner knew me well
and for fear of God and my mother, would never serve me a drink under
any circumstances. We fell into chatter that was mundane but seemed
exquisite. She had a brother who was thirty-three and she herself was
eighteen. She worked in an office up yonder as a secretary but planned
to head north soon for something better. I was putting on as many airs
as I could to dissuade my eagerness, but nearly lost control when I was
asked:

"So, what do you do?"
"What do I do?"
"Yes, what's your line of work"
"Er, I, er. . ."

Shock! I had never been spoken to in such a manner. She asked the
question so seriously that I presumed she would take the answer
seriously, so I did what I did when nothing else would do.

"Well, actually, I've been travelling the world for the past two
years". I cringed at the lie and sipped my coke to stop from choking on
it.

"Really?" A little surprised, she did a small frown to show she was
impressed. "Where have you been lately then?"
More elaborate lies would have to follow. I had an extensive knowledge
of geography and a creative imagination, so it was not difficult. Plus
I had thought many times of leaving the monotony of Jackson behind, and
had had many reveries of night walks in Africa, haunts in Paris, laying
on beaches in some Caribbean paradise whilst the sea lulled me to sleep
. . .

"Well, I went to Mexico a while ago, but that got tiresome, so I went
to Brazil"
"Was it far?"
"No, not really, well, in perspective to the experience (did that even
make sense?).
I've also been to Spain, and, and Portugal and France and Canada . .
."

I saw suspicion in her eyes that were also oceans and realised I had
gone too far. Silence. I waited to be sussed . . .Silence . . .

And then she asked me with her voice that soft as cream and melted like
butter, "How old are you?"

Through the symphonies and concertos I could pick up tones of mistrust
and confrontation. I realised suddenly that I stank of adolescence and
acted at once to clean the smell away. I forgot my gangly disposition,
concentrated on making my shoulders as wide as possible, stood with
false confidence and spoke with my lips half closed, so as not to
introduce her to the milk and spice that was still hot on my breath. It
seemed to work, and with youth hidden only in my young eyes I spoke of
places far and mysterious, hot and exotic. Her equally entrancing eyes
swayed to the beat of my words, and her own words slurred with some
shame and unease of being in the presence of one so worldly: I could
almost taste the guilt on my tongue.
That good intelligence, that good trust and knowing, I had taken it and
eaten it whole, and now it crept from the depths of my bubbling
stomach, up through my long oesophagus and burnt like bile tangy in my
mouth. Each word tasted of deceit.

"Nineteen (cringe). Yes, I visited Egypt with my sister last
year".
"Was it like it was in the books?"
"Yes, it was, absolutely fantastic. You should think of going sometime
(cringe)".

She told me she would love to, but alas, she had no money. I conveyed a
soft sympathy that due to her unfortunate financial state (which was
probably more fortunate than my own) she should be denied such a grand
pleasure.

We paused for a moment; the next lie wouldn't come with such ease as
the others. Then she had to go and I was all relieved, ashamed,
saddened and exhausted. I watched her glide again across the floor and
leave the room. She slowed for a glance backwards and my young eyes
betrayed me. Did she know?

A soft smile, flick of the hair and she was gone. The door slammed shut
and my mind swung open. The aching hatred I held lay down for a moment
as awe raced busily in. What had I just encountered but the impossible?
A resident of ' yonder up over the hill' that was not just acceptable
but utterly incredible and divine to the very bone? I decided the
answer was yes, but she would remain the only exception to the
rule.

The remorse I had only worsened with each thought: If I had had myself
against myself unto some nth degree, lined up to infinity and a little
bit beyond, there still wouldn't have been enough of me to criticise,
to condemn, to torture. How would I be forgiven? How could I be
forgiven? Urgh! I was consumed in self-hatred for my lies, but then,
she was just a thing from up yonder . .