The Pope's In Town
The Interstate lay flat and straight through the prairie and in the gray light before dawn only the small drifts of snow remaining on the dark fields gave dimension to the world outside the car. He was heading south with an hours' drive to go before reaching his destination, the car settled in the left lane where he would stay, passing the trucks and slower cars. The public radio station in Chicago was doing news commentary; the political scandal, the visit of the Pope, the earthquake in Columbia.
Still fighting over that trial . . . they'll never be able to have a non-partisan agreement in there . . . it's gonna take some Republican leader to finally get enough strength to face down that conservative wing, and tell 'em to get this over with before their party is destroyed. Clinton's no angel, he's contemptible . . . but I still think that impeachment wasn't intended for this kind of thing . . . he hasn't jeopardized the nation . . . he's just a egomaniac. To actually depose the President like this would be nothing less than a political coup, and if the Republicans don't think this weapon wouldn't be used on them in the future with a president of their party, they're just fooling themselves . . .
It had grown lighter and then the sun broke free of the horizon. The light caught the snow in the fields and for a few moments the pink edges gave the gently rolling prairie the look of a dark sea with scattered whitecaps. In the fields the snow had not been muddied like the piles that lay along the edge of the highway, and the light showed them to be a brilliant white still.
Almost as white as the wake that churned at the end of the ship . . . I've never seen a white so pure as that white . . . a dazzling, sharp-edged white . . . and the turquoise cobalt blue that edged it, setting it off from the deep blue of the sea at either side . . . it looked luxurious, refreshing, tempting . . . the sea has so many forms and colors always changing always in motion . . .
The radio was losing the signal and he pushed the button for another station; a preacher was giving a sermon in a voice that seemed almost a caricature of evangelizing southern preachers, with the pauses between phrases for the accenting 'ahuh' and a hoarse, shouting calling for prayer to release burdens. It must have been a taped sermon, as the congregation responded with 'Amens' and it didn't seem likely that such a service was happening at this hour. He glanced at the dashboard clock. She'll be waking soon. He imagined dim light in the bedroom, could see the line of her shoulder, felt his throat tighten as he wished he still lay next to her, waiting for the time for a soft kiss on her shoulder and a whispered 'Good morning, Love'.
Don't think of it now . . . can't do that . . .
He reached and touched the radio button again, and an oldies station came on. The DJ's were talking about the Pope. "Hey, the Pope's in town and he got to meet Mark Mcgwire yesterday". one of them said. "Shouldn't that be "Mcgwire got to meet the POPE?" the other said.
Yeah, it should. . . The Vicar of Christ on Earth comes to America, and reminds us to share our wealth and capabilities with the lesser nations, and these guys are excited because a guy who can hit a ball gets to meet him. . . Mcgwire seems to be a good guy, he's shown champion style in his character . . . too bad the politicians can't find that in themselves. They make the Pope's visit sound like a Rolling Stones tour . . . crowds of people chanting as if they're at a concert, or ball game . . . oh, of course . . . people making money selling souvenirs of the . . . I bet someone has a t shirt that says Pope Tour '99 . . . wonder if he has roadies . . . don't know what to think of this Pope . . . he's had a heck of a life . . . seems to have strength of will, or maybe it's faith, going on this trip with his age and problems . . . I bet he inspires lots of people.
The radio was playing a song and he turned the volume up. The trip odometer indicated 57 miles, the half way point. He changed lanes and passed a van that didn't seem to be interested in moving over to the slow lane, then changed back again into the left. He was close enough now that the radio would pick up the station he liked near the city, and he held the button down until it reached it. A Led Zeppelin song began almost immediately. The words came; "hey lady, you got the love I need, maybe, more than enough," He remembered the chords to the song, and how much he enjoyed playing it.
Over The Hill And Far Away; it was like a joke title, what someone's' mom would have said when asked how she liked to hear the band . . . I hope this job is over early . . . get home a little early, maybe have some time to be with her before the kids come home from school . . . hasn't been much time to talk alone this week.
Again his thoughts turned to her, filling the time on the road with memories of other times and hopes for times to come. The sun now came strongly from a low angle, directly on his face, he pulled the visor to the side and put his sunglasses on. It would be a bright, warm day, out of the ordinary for this time of year and already snow was melting. Again he remembered the sun and sky at sea when it was clear, and standing on a sponson at the side of the ship, watching the bow cut though the sea and getting lost in the sense of motion of the ship and the ocean all of it together rising and falling together and against each other. The ship was a living thing when it was at sea, it had a pulse and it breathed and it moved through its world with assurance. He thought of an early morning, anchored in port in the summer, the sea was smooth, barely a breeze moving over its swells and he looked across the bay at the city on the shore and wondered how it would be to live there and see this sight every day.
I could have stayed there forever . . .
He remembered a small restaurant in Magaluf, two or three blocks up from the beach, a real Spanish restaurant, away from all of the ex-patriot English, Irish, and German pubs that crowded the tourist part of the town. There were whole chickens grilling in a large rotisserie at the front of the restaurant and it was nearly empty but for a few people seated at the square bar that was in the center of the room, and it was the smell of the chicken cooking that reached him on the street that caused him to stop and look inside. It was time for lunch, and he entered, sat at the bar and asked for a cerveza. The bartender brought his beer and went back to tending a large iron skillet that sat on a grill in the middle of the bar. He saw that the patrons of the restaurant were local people, not tourists, and he watched the bartender stir the skillet filled with saffron colored rice, mussels, clams, and other things he didn't recognize. It was a paella, and it looked very good. He didn't see a menu on the bar, and his lack of language made him feel somewhat uncomfortable. He saw that the man who tended the skillet was looking at him, and he smiled, and pointed at the paella, and then at him. He understood the meaning easily, and nodded, and said "Si, por favor!". The man took a large ceramic plate, and scooped several ladles of the paella onto it, and brought it to him. Another man brought utensils, and a napkin. He tasted the rice and found that there were pieces of chicken and also small shrimp in the dish. The man cooking made two more plates, and handed one to the man who brought the utensils, and they began having their lunch also. A patron said something, and the guests and the men tending the bar all laughed, and the man made another plate, and handed it to the patron. He ate quietly, enjoying the meal and the quiet of the restaurant. The patrons talked and ate and drank beer, and it was relaxing, and comfortable. The man who brought the utensils looked at him, and said "Ingles?", pointing at him, and the man who tended the skillet said "No, Estades Unitas!". He said yes, United States, American. The cook reached to a shelf and brought a newspaper up, showing the front page that had a photograph of the ship anchored in the bay, and a headline that had the word "Saratoga" in it. He pointed at the paper and said "American, navy, Si?". He smiled and replied "Si,", yes, Navy. One of the patrons said the name of the ship, in the Spanish way of pronouncing, and spread his arms wide, saying "Grande!". He smiled and said "Si, Grande, muy grande!". He could not imagine that anyone on the island was not aware of the aircraft carrier and her escorts anchored in the bay, or of the thousand or more American sailors that were visiting the island on liberty. A pair of sailors entered the restaurant, and he nodded to them, and one asked if the food was good here. He replied that it was a very good place to eat, and they sat at the bar and ordered beer. The bartender asked if he wanted another cerveza, and brought one for him. He finished his meal, and drank the beer slowly, and watched the street through the window. He was thinking how peaceful it was, and he remembered being on the signal bridge, looking through the powerful binoculars they called 'Big Eyes' at the coastline as the ship headed towards the bay. He had been looking at the shore, and had caught sight of a small cove with a beach that had gentle swells running into it, and there was a house on the cliff above it, white with the red terra cotta roof, and he could see a path that lead down a short ways from it to the beach below and he thought it was the most wonderful place he could imagine to live. He finished the beer, and paid his bill, left a good tip and then walked out into the afternoon sun.
That villa, and that beach, . . . just a piece of heaven on earth . . .
He moved into the right lane, and slowed for the exit and then he was on the highway only a few minutes from the job. He hoped it would end early and that he would see her this afternoon.
02/03/99
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