a start of something larger

"One can see that the circle is still there long after it's traced," Thomas said, his finger pointing at air, eyes wide. "The image of the circle does not take shape until the tip of your finger reaches the point at which you began." He took in a breath. "Then suddenly, the circle is there, and you can't go back. It's there, right in front of you. It exists." Her short fingers, like canned Vienna sausages, pinched a cigarette. Barbara spilled ash on the ground and took a drag. We both listened to Thomas. Smoke blew in my face. I didn't care. I was alive and that was something.

The last thing I thought would happen that night was smoking with a seventy year old retired Statistics professor. Here's to probability. The stuff was good, and my high was lofty and magical, prancing pink unicorns making love in a life-sized cornucopia of yarn, straddled by Condoleezza Rice. Quickly however, as Thomas carried on dutifully with our "inspired philosophical conversation," his eyes yellowed, teeth bloodied and his silhouette darkened as did his intentions. Paranoia seeped into consciousness. We walked back downstairs and sat on an enclosed screen porch. Pangs of excessive excretion rumbled my abdomen as the room spun. I concentrated solely on not shitting my pants as my sense of sight, my sense of sound, my sense of touch and control drifted off in different directions and I was sure, beyond a doubt, that I was about to be murdered, burglarized, and eaten by Tom and Barbara. My parents would never be able to bury their son. Just when I was about to lose it, Thomas continued. I squeezed my butt cheeks together and sipped punch, looking as inedible as I could manage.

"Your wife sees you with your finger in the wind, ya see, and asks what you are looking at because there is no circle for her. Not yet. It is only after you trace the circle again that the vision takes form, ya see? It becomes a circle, plain as day, floating in the middle of the room. And just like that, you aren't crazy anymore." I wanted to say something, prove I knew a thing or two about all this philosophy stuff. Impress the old man so maybe he wouldn't eat me, that kind of thing. Tom's arms settled back down to the chair and his eyes like two moons. I sipped more punch.

He did not eat me. The vanilla bean ice cream with chocolate fudge was not so lucky.

It could be said it was inevitable, my meeting them that morning. Two fingers idly holding the sturdy coffee mug. Thick white plate adorned with biscuit, eggs, grits and smoked sausage. Journal coupled with pen, sitting blank, between the plate and I. Laminated copy of The Jungle held half open with my other hand. A yellow table cloth our backdrop. It was my only routine outside of the farm, and I clung to it religiously. I was no longer at home. I was in the "bible belt" of the south and the way I saw it, I had to cling to something religiously. This simple diner was my style, much more than any one of the Baptist institutions open for salvation.

I was to later discover that, second only to lawyers, churches occupied the most space in the yellow pages.

So there I was, Sunday morning, teenage disasters behind the counter giving me the occasional stare tending so-and-so's change. Aged men like raisins dotted tables with metal legs and filled the joint to the brim. All of them talking like it was the Oprah book club or something. When I came strolling in through the front door, the room fell silent and sets of straining eyes hooked onto me. They followed me the duration of the walk from the door to the counter, the counter to my seat. With their curiosity satisfied, the raisins became animated, like the California mascot icons that danced and sang if you made a noise. I prodded my forehead, searching. The reflection in the polished napkin dispenser confirmed it. Yankee tattooed between my eyes. They knew. And I knew they knew.

"Nobody reads books in White County," the waitress told me. I think Shirley was her name. I was waiting for her to tell me that the war wasn't over yet, and that I should watch my back. She refilled my coffee and smiled.

I wasn't from around these parts.