Most towns that form some yellow blotch on a map have evolved around a river.
In some cases the waterway is a terminus while in others it provides a significant divide where conjugation between the halves depends upon the feasibility of crossing said river. But usually it’s not so dramatic as a navigable artery, just a tributary with maybe a street or trail following at least part one shore, a membrane through which nourishment flows in and sins are carried out. Jameson, Illinois is of the latter variety.
Every morning around six Daniel James Aldwin, age 54, emerges through a small gate a few steps from the front door of a brown shack. Inside, his wife of some years, whose face would come to closely resemble Beavis of MTV cartoon fame within the next decade, dutifully washes the bowl and spoon from which he consumed oatmeal. Nothing added, not even milk. It produces mucous.
Rain or shine, even on the coldest days in a musty trench coat and tweed Inspector Clouseau hat he heads along the bank of the Mattahoon, because, that’s what he did yesterday, greeting friend and stranger, every face he blesses, always a kind word but never any spare change, they’d just blow it on drugs or porno. Hands and voices protrude from the cabs of trucks and van windows, hey Danny, as he waves and smiles with just his mouth, eyes hollow as a campaign promise.
Do you know Jesus as your savior? Brother? Let me get the door for you, brother. Can you call me brother, brother? Have your sins been forgiven? Warshed in the blood of the lamb? Are you warshed, my brother?
There are two cafes in Jameson, both of which gleefully greet Dan with a fresh pour of coffee in a to-go cup, no charge, since that allows him to promptly get on his way once his monologue boils dry. From either locale it’s not far to the park where he can coo with the pigeons till lunchtime.
Up until two or three years ago, no one remembers, he drove a ‘78 Pinto wagon, mainly to haul his piano tuning gear along with pads and corks and springs for various band instruments. If all else fails, the Dan Man can. Work was steady, mostly clients that could ignore his increasingly odd demeanor, just enough extra green to round out Medicaid. Korea had left a plate in his head that could crinkle an oncoming Peterbilt.
On the Lord’s Day he turns up at one church or another, the formidable foyer rat, or maybe entreating the choir regulars with the tip of his tongue as they try to prepare for the special. You know the Democrats voted last week to outlaw Bible studies at home, it won’t be long now. Boy it’s a shame, the kids these days. Always vote Republican. Hey sound man, did you know that you never have to mike a percussion instrument? They say Bible literacy right now is at an all time LOW. I pledge allegiance to the REPUBLIC, not to the democracy.
One time during the sermon he got up, stepped to a side door, waved and said “seee-yaaaa” to the congregation and then went on being Dan, which would sometimes mean a raging diatribe against “Christian rock”.