noticed the old man sitting against the outside of the building with a Bible in his hands. He said, It’s a little hot out here for afternoon reading isn’t it?
The old man placed a marker in his book and looked up. I’m trying to get some sun and I wasn’t expecting company.
The old man took a measured glance of the neighborhood and church parking lot before saying, Where’d you park?
I didn’t.
Huh?
I didn’t park anywhere.
Well where’s your car?
I sold it, Silvio said.
Every structure comprising the small town was set in a neat grid of city blocks cleanly framed by concrete sidewalks wide enough for the comfort of three people to walk abreast. Despite that comfort, rare was it to see anybody walking here other than the adolescents who lacked the persuasion or the power to haggle out a ride from their older siblings and parents. Although the logic of an outsider would deem it possible, if not pleasant, to walk or bike to every location in a town of its size, for those who commuted with a purpose, the next destination was just as far as the one they had just come from—the grocery store is two miles from the junior high, which is three-point-four miles from the post office, which is one-point-eight miles from the elementary school, which is two-point-six miles away from home. Downtown was dead, and no one walked its forgotten pavement except for the ghosts of grandparents who used to drive their old, heavy coups here on weekend nights before the price of a gallon of gas was comparable to a gallon of milk, which then came to the front door by the hands of a man and the wired crates he carried. And now Silvio.
The old man said, I haven’t seen you for a couple of days.
I’ve been busy writing.
Writing?
Writing.
What have you been writing?
Stuff for the church.
What stuff?
Silvio leaned his back against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting next to the old man on the warm ground. His legs straightened and splayed before him on the concrete like a formless scarecrow. He said, Before someone can even be considered for sainthood they have to be nominated by a local congregation, so I’m going to need to get some support from the church. And then, farther down the line, the higher-ups will review my writings, among other things. I’m hoping they can publish it in the weekly bulletin and I can start to build a reputation.
A reputation?
Or a baseline, or a portfolio, or something. You know?
I don’t.
Silvio shrugged and then reached down to brush off a fly that had landed on his outstretched and hairy shin. The old man continued,
Sil, I told you. This isn’t what I was talking about. This saint stuff. It’s crazy.
And I appreciate that you feel that way. But you need to understand that it’s even crazier if I don’t have your help. You’ve been here for a long time and if you vouch for me it could really help out.
I don’t even know what I’m vouching for.
Just think of me like Saint Francis de Sales, only better.
Silvio. I don’t know.
Silvio looked at him for another moment and offered a short smile before reaching his arm up awkwardly to give the old man’s shoulder a soft squeeze. He rose to his feet and began walking up the hot pavement when the old man spoke again from behind him.
I’ll see what I can do.
Silvio turned back toward the church with a grin and said, I appreciate it. I really do.
Silvio turned again to walk away, but threw his hands up and faced the old man. He said, But just so you know, I was kidding about that Saint Francis stuff. I’m not a great writer or anything like that.
It’s okay.
I just wanted to be upfront with you.
I got it, Sil.
The old man offered a curt nod of his head as Silvio began to walk away again down the lonely sidewalk that, in two-point-one miles, would land him on his front doorstep.
Make lemonade, the old man called after him.
Silvio stopped. What?
I said make lemonade.
What on earth is that supposed to mean?
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
Where did that come from?
It’s a saying.
Well why are you telling it to me?
I’m telling you to deal with what you got.
By making lemonade?
By making something bad into something good.
What’s wrong with the lemons?
There’s nothing wrong with the lemons.
You just said they were bad.
The lemons are fine. It’s just that the lemonade is better.
Silvio raised a skeptical eyebrow. Just because you don’t like lemons doesn’t make that a saying.
——————————————————————
My parents believed in small government, low tax rates, and an America that touted its diversity a hell of a lot more than it embodied it. They were proud Christians for one hour every Sunday, and I tried to be one too. But I didn’t care much for the masses. Their numbing repetition of ritual never did it for me. It’s a damn wonder why I ever got into the military with that kind of attitude, but that’s exactly what I did. I figure you can look back on a lot of things in life that didn’t turn out the way you wanted and not make much sense of them, even with all of that hindsight. I guess now I see that if only one or two decisions fit into that category, then that can be your whole life. Ask any non-habitual offender who is in prison. They’ll tell ya. One or two decisions that don’t jive with anything else you have ever done, and that can define every moment of your existence. Scary stuff.
Anyway, the people at the church were all friendly and they sucked on their smiles and I don’t have much else to say about them. There was one Sunday, when I was a freshman in high school, and a boy from the congregation a few years older than me had just graduated and enlisted to be a marine. There were rumors in the school that he was gay, and he was teased for it, but he had never come out and nobody really knew. Anyway, the guy up front had just finished a short sermon on the irreligiousness of homosexuality when he had the soon-to-be marine stand and be the target of a large group prayer. While the rest of the congregation craned their bodies and bowed their necks to better pray for him, I couldn’t help but wonder at if
