After I had run out of road leaving the city, I was surprised that the little Honda scooter got me as far as it did. The city had become a never-ending traffic jam, sat there so long that people had abandoned their cars, leaving them to have the sun scorch the paint off them. Or maybe they’d just figured there was no place else to go.
The little motorbike got me past all that with a lot of bobbing and weaving around the abandoned vehicles. It wasn’t really equipped for it, but I got off the main roads as soon as I was out of the city. Out beyond the perimeter you never knew when you’d run into a roadblock or who’d be running it, army or brigands, national guard or militia. Either which way, I didn’t feel like answering questions or giving up my water, so I pulled off onto the first dirt road I found.
It was autumn, but the tall grass around the road was browned out for miles in every direction, so I resisted the urge to break for a smoke. I only put my feet on the ground when I saw an old man by the side of the road, sitting on a log and staring out across the field. He didn’t say anything as I brought the Honda to a stop and kept quiet when I sat down on the log next to him. He had a wide-brimmed hat but the sun looked like it had taken its toll, so I offered him a sip from my canteen. He held up his hand as if a better offer might come along, but spoke then without introduction. “Spiritual is what modern folk call it when they want to believe in God, but don’t want to put rules around it.” When I nodded, he pointed out into the field and added, “People used to come together and sing spirituals. No rules, just song. But they don’t do that anymore.
“It would look too much like agreein’. Some people just couldn’t stand that.”
I followed his finger to the burned out old church he was staring at and said nothing.
See the author’s published work here.
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