Professional Documents
Culture Documents
By
Lee Thompson
I walk to forget, or until I’m forgiven my crimes against God and man and Earth.
Hezekiah Jackson’s face had long ago turned chestnut brown beneath the relentless sun.
The knife duct-taped to his left forearm rubbed his skin raw as he walked the shoulder of a side
road—one he knew he could be stuck on for the rest of his life. He wanted to pull his light blue
jacket off and his shirt and lay in the road, surrounded by New Mexico mountains and clear sky,
the thrum of tires vibrating against his jaw bone as he placed his face to the asphalt and prayed
for mercy. Cars streamed by and raised dust that clung to the sweat streaking his lined face.
A black Toyota clattered as it pulled to the shoulder of the road ahead of him, taillights
bright and red like the Devil’s glare as He approached a long-forsaken altar.
The driver leaned across the seat and threw the passenger door open. Hezekiah kept
walking.
I walk to forget…
He neared the pickup. It wore an out-of-state plate and a blanket of dust. He swallowed
mountain air, telling himself, Don’t stop. You stop you remember. Forget.
The driver tapped the horn as Hezekiah stumbled past the open passenger door, twisting
his hands against each other, bringing his right fist into his other palm and digging into the meat.
He squinted his eyes against the red blossom flaring high above, and gritted his teeth as he
slowed and a red blossom spread its stain across the back of his eyes.
“At least the dead might rest in peace,” he mumbled, his tongue thick and dry, throat
parched.
“Hey. You need a lift, right?” A girl’s voice, hysterical with sin and selfishness.
He stopped, a couple feet past the front bumper, a puff of dust floating from the shoulder
around his worn sneakers and sun-bleached blue jeans. Hezekiah’s voice came out a whisper that
Cars roared by in both directions. Drivers with faces, identities, memories. He envied
them in a way. At least they knew how to accept their lives enough to move forward.
“I walk to forget . . .”
He started down the road, eyes on the foothills nestling against mountains that cut the
sky.
The driver opened her door behind him and he could picture her—lithe, dirty blond hair,
an AC/DC tee and a short leather skirt; her skin pale further up her arms and thighs, hidden
bruises left by men who dug into her to pay her back for what she took from them. He pictured
fingers closed around his left arm. She tried to move him, turn him toward the Burning Bush and
her corruption. Hezekiah wanted to moan the madness free. He shook his head, his shoes tight
You can’t save me. I can’t save you. It’s too late. We’re all alone with our pasts, walking
Her grip tightened. A couple of car horns blared as if to warn him of the pain she held
tight within her bosom; but he knew this pain was his to carry alone, because to mingle their
The girl’s hair tickled his neck, her breath on his skin. “God, you’re solid as a rock.” She
let go and stepped in front of him, the top of her head just in front of his mouth. He thought
about eating through her skull, just to avoid looking her in the eyes again. “Hello?” She waved a
slim hand in front of his face. “Do you ignore everyone who’s trying to lend you a hand?”
A buzzard cawed and climbed higher upon the wind—the devil scribing a message to
God on Hezekiah’s behalf. The bird disappeared like a grain of sand tossed upon a frozen lake,
consumed by a coming blizzard. The girl rose on her toes and obscured his vision.
I walk to forget . . .
“What the hell are you talking about?” She leaned in, her shadow cool. “I could use you.”
Hezekiah shook his head. We’re too heavy in this shared space.
She laughed, suddenly, mad, and he opened his eye because that wasn’t the laughter he’d
expected. Her hair was dark, a storm cloud swirling above her eyes. She smiled. “You’re not
gonna make me throw you in the trunk are you?”
Hezekiah chuckled and choked on the dryness filling his mouth. He coughed, hand over
heart, part of his soul wishing this strange woman would lean forward and kiss him cruelly to
He whispered, though it split his dry tongue and filled his mouth with blood, “Don’t
“Fuck you, asshole! All I’m trying to do is help you! You wanna keep walking, huh? You
wanna little push?” She stormed behind him, slammed the door, while Hezekiah swallowed the
blood, glad for moisture, knowing he didn’t deserve it. His body became as water—loose and
flowing—in the release that came with the renewal of his own space. He drank a breath of fleshy
air, tasting her last exhalation as it lingered and brushed his lips. The heavens glared over the
The truck’s tires crunched gravel and the girl laid on the horn. The bumper nudged the
Another nudge sent his flesh crawling over his scalp. Sweat stung his eyes. A heavy
aroma of mixed scents filled his head—rubber and dirt and mountain laurel and blood—as he
took another step. The Final One still out of sight, though he longed for it to come riding across
the distance like a knight, its armor worn from centuries of battle.
. . . or until I’m forgiven my crimes against God and man and Earth.
The constant scream of the truck’s horn hammered, humming through the connection
between the bumper and flesh. She jounced the truck forward and steel slapped his hamstrings.
The muscles knotted. The horn died. She screamed like a wounded animal.
He failed to decipher her words. The knife chafed the inside of his forearm and he knew
that he had to free it before it dug a hole through his skin. Hezekiah lifted the sleeve and tore the
duct tape free. The girl’s voice filled his left ear.
“Come on, you dickless wonder! You sunburned, pathetic piece of tumbling shit! You
She floored the Toyota. The engine roared like God’s judgment. He didn’t brace himself.
He didn’t move.
The truck hit him. The crazy woman behind the wheel hit the brakes. A cloud of dust
bloomed around Hezekiah as he flew forward, praying his neck would snap when he hit the
ground. But God worships Cruelty. Pain flared through him, every fiber in his body burning, the
backs of his legs cramped and bruising. He got a knee under him. Another. He lurched to his feet
and fire swam across his spine and spread and lingered in his ribs. Hezekiah walked through the
dust cloud cloaking the truck. She tightened her fingers around the steering wheel and refused to
He ripped the knife from the sheath taped to his arm and raised it so the point covered her
arm, seeing his wife, his sweet, sweet wife, her sins like a stain spreading fungus across the
upholstery.
Hezekiah didn’t know what she wanted. Maybe to die with him.
The girl stuck her head out the open driver’s window, her voice soft again, bleating. “Are
you getting in? I don’t wanna run you over but you’re in my way. You have to the count of three
One.
He nodded. Almost smiled, thinking, Maybe we can help each other. Because standing
there brought memories back. And memories hurt. They’d twist you into someone else.
Two.
Hezekiah walked to the passenger door. The door handle cool, the metal soft enough that
he felt he could shape into anything if he only possessed some artistic prowess. But God had
robbed him. Or the devil. He didn’t know. There was only the walking, the sun, the moon, the
endless scream of life carrying on all around him when he knew his should be over.
She’ll do it. I’ll give her my knife. She’ll hear what I’ve done. Then . . .
The girl smiled, but her voice boomed. “Well, get in!”
He sank into the passenger seat. Air conditioning chilled his shins and knees. Hezekiah
mustered the strength and closed the door. She grinned as something popped in his shoulder. Her
voice lost some of its venom. She dripped honey over it. He smelled fire. “What’s your name? I
bet it’s Michael. You’re my archangel, aren’t you? You hide your sword up your sleeve like a
magician. Slick.”
Hezekiah stared at his hands, crumpled in his lap like useless extensions, beyond his
control; at the knife jutting from his grip like a deadly phallus, ready to draw pleasure from pain.
“Hell, here we come,” she said and pulled onto the road, sunlight glaring off the dirt-
flecked windshield. “I’m the Messiah,” she whispered. “You believe that shit? What kinda lucky
I’m not lucky. And the Messiah’s got blood in his eyes.
“You’re not headed anywhere, are you? No. You were just walking, waiting for me to
find you. All the pieces are falling into place, right?” She gunned the engine. The white line
blurred outside the passenger window. “You know how to use that sword of yours? Of course
you do. Because for where we’re going, you’re going to have to cut the devil’s heart out.”
The Messiah cranked the radio and filled the car with static, the occasional voice of a
daytime talk show coming through in fuzzy, garbled clips. She tapped her fingers against the
steering wheel. He wondered if she was calling other angels through some hidden code,
preparing for Armageddon. She puked up a stream of words in a strange tongue, girded by her
convictions, like so many other people he’d forgotten, people with purpose, ready to drag the
world to their bosom or stomp skulls to dust when the piled bodies grew too high and obstructed
their vision. She cussed and groaned and screamed her insanity, raved about God’s huge penis
and her bloody birth from the womb of the Twelve Apostles. Hezekiah listened to her madness,
but all he saw was the white line, a white china plate decorated by a flowering ink-blue design
rattling on the dash. He heard footsteps echoing in a hall. The Toyota rushed toward Hell with
the clatter of a dragged bag of bones, the hum of tires about to blow . . .
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