He’s got the pages he ripped out of the Bible at the motel. He has crumpled them up into a ball and stuffed them into his pocket. The sharp little crinkles in the text are the teeth of God.
He’s standing in the Cracker Barrel. He has a right to the candy at the roadside shop. God says so. He makes his way to the jars. Saltwater taffy. Peanut log. Seasame honey. It all has to all be right for him to hear the Word. But there’s a screaming baby. Shut up! He wants to tell the baby. Shut the fuck up! He is losing his connection to the candy, to God’s instruction.
He turns to bless out the baby and there, at eye level on a shelf, is a covering for a hen. It is patchwork and the hen doesn’t move. He lifts the quilted padding slowly in case the animal lunges. Underneath it is a teapot. “Well dad blam!” He smiles with rotten teeth and feels God’s mouth.
“Yes,” says God. “Take it. Your mother would love to have it. It will cover her aluminum teapot beautifully and it will fit quite nicely in your inside jacket pocket. If anyone questions you regarding the theft of this tea cozy, tell them the great I AM hath sent you.”
He is hungry. He wonders if the great I AM would have him eat eggs and grits and a side of biscuits. He fingers the ball in his pocket.
“Go ahead,” says God. “There is a restaurant right next to the candy shop.”
He enters the restaurant and sits in a booth.
“I am God’s prophet,” he says to the dark beautiful waitress whose nametag reads “Robin.”
“Good to meet you, God’s prophet.”
“The Lord says he cares for the birds of the field, aye, even the sparrow.”
“Ain’t you a sweety.” She pours him water.
“I want some cheese grits, ma’am, and some scrambly eggs and biscuits made with sour milk.”
“Prophets eat gratis here.” Robin bends low to pour his coffee. “That means for free.” He stares at the top of her breasts. They are soft and creamy as chocolate.
He fingers God’s teeth. They utter no word of truth. Only his man part grows hard.
When she leaves, he lays the crumbled up ball of Holy Writ on the table. “Where are you I AM? Say anything and I’ll do it, I swanee.”
God is silent.
“Is it because I burned for the bird?”
Robin comes back with his orange juice. “You ‘bout to eat the Scripture? Ezekiel did that baby. Became God’s man.”
He squirrels away the paper.
“Maybe biscuits first, then the Word,” she says.
He looks at Robin saunter away.
“You are in love with the Nubian princess,” says God. “You lust for her.”
“Yes.” God knows every heart, the desires of every man before he utters them. He takes a huge swallow of coffee in order to burn tongue. “Don’t never go away, God.” he says, fingering the Scripture. He would let some blood out later with his knife. He was pretty sure it was supposed to be his this time.
Meg Sefton is a writer who lives in central Florida. When she’s not doing literary things, she’s watching the sunset over her gator-filled lake or trashy TV on her wide screen.