Torch Song  by  Dan Webre

It’s coming up on three o’clock and I’m thinking about who’s got the best price on beer when Irv walks over to where I’m weeding the water garden.  I look up from my crouched position, one hand holding a dripping mass of hydrilla.

            “Jerry, I need you to make one more delivery today,” Irv says in his thick, Mediterranean accent.

I don’t actually know where Irv’s from.  We’ve never discussed it.  But then, he never asked me about a four-year gap in my employment history when I was applying for this job, so I don’t get too personal with him.

            Irv reaches out with two folded slips of paper as I dry my hands.  I read the address on the smaller piece of paper, 513 Clarence Rumpe Ave.  I couldn’t tell you where that is, but I recognize the name – the Rumpes were once very prominent in this area.  I look at Irv for a moment hoping for more information.  When he doesn’t offer any, I decide not to push him.  Irv’s got kind of a short fuse, and besides, I can check the map of Springdale I keep hidden in the truck once I get out of sight of the nursery – Irv considers maps a sign of weakness.

            The other sheet of paper he’s handed me is a yellow order form.  Irv had these printed up with a list of all our inventory, arranged with corresponding item numbers.  I’m not sure why Irv didn’t just add a space for the address when he was making up the yellow sheets instead of giving us a separate form to use, but that’s Irv for you.  I find the box with the check mark in it.  There’s only one item selected on this order – it’s for Mrs. Smithfield Cowpers.  That’s got to be the wife of Judge Cowpers.  If so, they live out by the country club somewhere.  The yellow sheet says that Mrs. Cowpers wants a number 33-529-3.  There’s an ink stamp of the word URGENT marked across the top of the page.  As I walk to the delivery truck, I wonder what could be so urgent about a six-foot plaster replica of the Statue of Liberty; but, hey, I’m not paid to ask questions.

Once I get to the truck, I back onto the gravel road that cuts through rows and rows of gaudy statues.  Irv keeps them in a section close to the street, lined up in military-style formations.  Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, some Buddhas, and a Hindu god or two, Irv’s assembled a pretty impressive collection of saints, though these don’t seem to move like they used to.  I pass them and get out of the truck when I reach the Americana section.  There’s a really eclectic slice of American history here.  Aside from presidents and framers of the Constitution, you can purchase celebrities for your garden like Babe Ruth, Charlie Chaplin, and Albert Einstein.  When I first started at Irv’s a year ago, Einstein was misfiled with the Greeks.  The guy before me thought he was Medusa because of the wild hair, but Irv said the mustache should have tipped him off.  I have to take Irv’s side on this one, though I don’t think the guy should have been fired over it.

Before loading Mrs. Cowpers’ statue of liberty, I pause to look at a one-armed Stonewall Jackson that Irv’s been trying to sell at discount.  Irv’s shameless.  He’ll say anything to the customers.  I once heard him compare this piece to the Venus de Milo when a man said something about the missing limb.  He’s got another sales pitch he uses where he says the broken Stonewall is meant to remind us of the fallen South.  For this one, Irv adds a quaver to his voice and stares at the ground a long time.  I guess that’s the kind of initiative and salesmanship that explains why Irv has his own business, and I spend my paycheck on canned beer and credit card payments.

Regardless, I’ve got a job to do.  I hoist the statue onto the bed of the truck.  Thankfully she’s hollow inside, and I can lift her without completely screwing up my back.  I secure her as best I can between some bags of potting soil so that she stands upright and faces the rear of the truck.  Then I use bungee cords to tie her down.  I don’t think Irv’s watching, so I sneak a look at the folded map once I get into the cab of the truck.  Clarence Rumpe Ave. is, indeed, near the country club in one of the newer developments.  I should be able to get there in a little over half an hour if traffic isn’t too bad, but it’s almost rush hour.  Honking twice to let Irv know I’m on my way, I pass through the gates of Irv’s: The Garden Experience with Lady Liberty raising her torch in salute.

***

            I don’t mind these delivery runs.  In fact, I like being on the road away from Irv’s constant scrutiny.  It’s just that I don’t like leaving the nursery so late in the day.  I would’ve been going home soon if Mrs. Cowpers could have waited for her tacky statue.  But what’s it matter really?  At least I’ve got a job.  When I left Allenco’s head office in New Orleans, most places said I was overqualified for the kind of work I’m doing now.  Others insinuated pushing papers around wasn’t really work and weren’t impressed with my liberal arts education.  So I tried dumbing down my past, leaving things off – like those four years of my life.  Working as a glorified file clerk was only leading to more of the same, and I was already sick of office life.  I know it doesn’t make sense to give up decent money with no other prospects in mind, but what can I say?  I needed a change.  I was living above my means, racking up debts, and all along I should have had it made.  When Irv hired me, I felt the relief of a fresh start.  But then that feeling never lasts.

            On the interstate I’m driving a little slower than usual.  I know the statue is secure, but funny things can happen when those drafts of air start whipping around on the freeway.  Soon, though, I reach an early snarl of outbound traffic and have to slow down even more.  I should be able to hit the less-crowded surface streets again in a couple of exits.  In the meantime, I’m stuck with all these commuters making their daily escape from the city.

            I turn up the volume on the truck’s radio in time to catch a voice announcing the call letters KRSH.  This is the local classic rock station.  A different voice comes on to tell me there’s a thirty percent chance of thundershowers this evening.  He may as well be saying there’s a thirty percent chance of hearing Lynard Skynard in the next five minutes.  I twist the knob on the radio and tune in one of the many country stations broadcasting in this area.  I recognize the song that’s playing.  It’s one from Springdale’s favorite son, Bobby Ray.  It’s kind of a battle hymn, really, that came out shortly after 9/11.  There are not only banjos and fiddles involved, but also screaming electric guitars.  I listen to a couple of verses:

            Bobby Ray made his first million singing about the trials of the average, everyday working man.  But I’m sure he’s increased his earnings several fold since we declared war on terror.  Now he celebrates average, everyday patriots as he calls them.  The song is building to its climax:

Bobby Ray’s no poet, but he does seem to capture what’s on the minds of the people.  I thought they’d stop playing this one after gas prices went through the roof, but not much has changed from what I can tell.  Bobby Ray still does his part for the cause by making public appearances in a white, stretch Hummer limousine.  And now, looking at the other gridlocked vehicles, I think Bobby Ray would be proud.  All around me I see fellow patriots driving SUVs and pick-up trucks.  Many of these vehicles are jacked up with huge mud tires, and most display American flags or firearms of some type.  The cars are mainly Chevys or Fords, and though there are a few smaller models, there aren’t enough to make a difference.

            I navigate the tuner through random ads and static as I inch the truck past the Fleming St. exit.  Traffic starts moving again as the highway opens up into three westbound lanes.  I have to be  careful here since some of the frustrated drivers behind me have taken to using the shoulder as a shortcut.  Once things settle down again, I turn my attention to the radio.  There’s a station I’d like to find somewhere on the lower end of the dial that plays Cajun and Zydeco music.  It’s one of the last reminders in this part of Louisiana of our French-Creole heritage.  I like listening to it, but the station picks up a lot of interference.  At first, I think I’ve found it when I hear an accordion, but a booming, wheedling voice soon drowns out the music.  The voice is pronouncing the Lord’s name in more syllables than I thought possible, and when I look out my window, I see the source – Reverend Cutter’s giant stadium church with its enormous radio transmitter just past the inbound lanes of traffic.  There’s an electronic billboard positioned right next to the interstate with scrolling red lights announcing Sunday worship services and snippets of scripture.  It reminds me of the message board outside the Superdome.  On the radio broadcast, Reverend Cutter is giving a sermon about earning potential and how when we don’t live up to ours, we’re stealing tithes from the Lord.  I can’t say I’d ever thought about it that way.

Before long I’m taking the exit for Boulevard del Sur and weaving around the back roads on the edge of town.  I see the turn-off for the country club and keep going.  According to the map, I’ve got another couple of miles to go.  This part of town was supposed to be protected wetland – at least it was last time I lived in Springdale.  But some new legislation paved the way for so-called land improvements.  These primarily included draining the swampy areas by a method first perfected and widely implemented by Cotton Rumpe in the late 1800s.

My friend Paul Guidry and I were talking about this just the other day.  He’s been doing a lot of catering work out here lately.  I told him I hardly recognized the area when I moved back from New Orleans.  Apparently, things were getting too cramped in downtown Springdale for the old guard.  And since they viewed these wetlands as just going to waste, various interest groups formed a coalition to develop them.  Plans were drawn up for a new country club with multimillion dollar home-sites and a number of satellite, gated-communities.  For those who found gated-living too communal, tracts of land were made available for them to develop separately.  The few dissenting voices were dismissed as a fringe group of radical environmentalist whackos, and the whole scheme breezed through the legal system.  From what I remember, Judge Smithfield Cowpers presided over these affairs.

After turning the truck between two massive Corinthian columns, I reach Clarence Rumpe Ave.  Not that far down the road, I find myself in front of a huge house vaguely modeled after an Italian villa, although this one’s painted bright orange.  Surrounding the property, there’s a black, iron fence and a gate with a small box in front of it housing a buzzer and a speaker.  I pull up, press the buzzer, and say into the box that I’m from Irv’s: The Garden Experience.

            There’s no reply except for a quiet electrical hum.  This is followed by the sound of a chime and the whirring of an electric motor as the gate swings slowly open.  I’m pulling into the semicircular driveway in front of the house when a woman in her late forties comes storming out, shouting something unintelligible.  I roll to a stop and lean over to lower the passenger-side window.

            “Go around to the service entry,” she yells, gesturing to an extension of the driveway that leads out of sight behind the house.

            I put the truck back into gear and follow the pavement to its end.  On my right, I can see a swimming pool with a large statue of a screaming eagle on the concrete next to it.  To my left is a well-manicured garden.  A moment later, I see the same woman approaching in a golf cart.  I step out of the truck and watch as she leaves the cart and walks toward me.  She is wearing a green top with tight-fitting white pants and sandals.  The mass of blond hair atop her head looks as though it could have belonged to a much younger woman.  Her skin is tanned and her manner aloof.  She’s not unattractive, and likely, she was beautiful once.  But her appearance now suggests one plastic surgery too many.  She acknowledges me with her right hand extended.

            “Mrs. Smithfield Cowpers.”

            “Jerry,” I say.

            “Thank you for coming out on such short notice.  I want to have the statue in place before my husband’s party tomorrow evening.  It’s intended as a surprise.”

            “Not a problem.  Where would you like her?”

            “Overlooking the pool, in view of the patio.  You can place it next to Judge Cowpers’ eagle.”

            Lowering the tailgate, I hear Mrs. Cowpers say, “Here, just a minute.  Let me help you.”  She walks back to the golf cart and picks up a walkie talkie and says, “Henderson, please report to poolside, Henderson.”  She turns to me.  “Wait just a moment, Jeremy.  Henderson will be right with you.”

            Soon another golf cart pulls up, this one with a shovel and clippers draped across the back.  An old man gets out but seems incapable of straightening his spine all the way.  He must be past seventy.

            “Henderson, help this young man with the Judge’s new statue, would you?”

            “Yes, Ma’am,” says Henderson, before ambling in my general direction.

            I hesitate but then decide to continue unstrapping Lady Liberty.  Henderson reaches the truck about the same time I’ve freed her from the bungee cords and positioned her where I can unload her.  Henderson already has one hand – a shaking, bird’s claw of an extremity – on the statue’s leg before I can hop back to the ground.  I count aloud – one…two…three… – and then heave the statue down, bearing all the weight myself but pausing for Henderson’s body to follow through with the necessary movements.  I consider the distance from where we stand to the section of patio where Mrs. Cowpers wants the statue and curse Irv for never fixing the nursery’s broken dolly.

            Looking at Henderson, hearing him wheeze, I think about waving him off.  But there’s something good-natured in the way he smiles between breaths that tells me he’ll have nothing of it.  So I ask him if he’s ready, and after he gives a quick nod, I count to three, and we’re hobbling our way toward the screaming eagle at poolside.  At first, I’m holding just the torch-end since Henderson has reached for the statue’s sandaled-feet.  But Henderson’s hands are slipping, and I have to shift my grip around the statue’s torso to compensate.

Twice we stop for breaks, and each time I ask Henderson if he’s ready to continue.  Both times he says nothing, only nods his head between gulps of air.  I’m getting tired myself as we reach the designated spot.  Mrs. Cowpers is waiting there, and we gently lower the statue to the ground, rotating her according to our instructions.

            Mrs. Cowpers circles the statue then gasps.  “Oh, dear, no,” she says.  “This won’t do.

“Jeremy,” she tells me, “Why did you bring me a broken statue?  Look here – there is a crack on her shoulder.”

            I turn to examine the area she’s pointing to, but I don’t see anything.

            “This is terrible,” she continues, “I can’t accept this.  And with the Judge’s party tomorrow.  Please, just take this away.”

Mrs. Cowpers stands with her head drooping into her left hand.  I’m dumbfounded.  She looks up and sees me staring.

“Why are you waiting, Jeremy?  Please, take it away.”

By now her voice is cracking and she’s waving her hand dismissively at the statue.  “I should have known better than to deal with that man,”  Mrs. Cowpers says before turning and leaving.

            Henderson is looking at me, smiling apologetically.  We repeat our labors, only this time in reverse.  I still can’t see the crack or scratch or whatever set off Mrs. Cowpers, but we load the statue back onto the truck.  I thank Henderson and leave 513 Clarence Rumpe Ave., I’m hoping for good.

***

When I get back to the nursery, Irv has already locked up for the night.  Usually he has me leave the truck in the parking lot outside the gate.  I can’t get inside anyway because I don’t have a key.  Irv doesn’t trust anyone with keys to the building or the lock on the gate.  So I sit in the truck, thinking about the statue, wondering what I should do.

I’m already worried about explaining to Irv why Mrs. Cowpers doesn’t want her anymore.  Honestly, I can’t explain this to myself.  I’ve looked again all across her back and shoulders and see no cracks of any kind.  All I know is that Irv will be sure to blame me.

I try to think of a place where I can hide the statue for the night since leaving her in the truck is out of the question – the bags of potting soil probably aren’t even safe in this neighborhood – but there aren’t any out of view places where I can leave her.  I don’t want to do this, but my only choice is to take her home.  She’ll be safe there, and I can have her back, along with the truck, before Irv gets to work in the morning.  Besides, it’s late and I’m tired, and I really don’t want to walk home this evening.  My apartment’s not that far away – less than two miles – but it takes about half an hour to walk there, and longer, I’d imagine, with a statue.

People ask me all the time why I don’t have a car, and strangers look confused when I tell them this, like I’m trying to be different or something.  But really, it’s just because I’m broke.  Maybe I could afford a car, but once you figure in upkeep and insurance – not to mention gas – it becomes too much.  So I stopped worrying about it.  These days I’m focused on changing my life for the better, scaling back on wants and needs – that type of thing.  I’ve wasted far too much time trying to compensate for life’s miseries with credit cards, and even though Irv doesn’t pay well at the nursery, I’m finally getting my debt under control.

            My apartment’s a studio on the second floor, so I’m going to have to lug the statue up one flight of stairs to get her inside.  I’m in pretty decent shape, but hauling her around Cowpers’ after a full day at Irv’s has left my arms and legs feeling a bit rubbery.  I’m afraid I’ll drop her, so I ask my teenaged neighbor Toby, who’s bouncing a basketball in the parking lot, to help me carry her up.

            “Sure, man.  I’ll help for five bucks.”

            I’m wondering whatever happened to being a good neighbor, but since I don’t see anyone else around, and I’m in no position to bargain, I tell Toby OK.  We get the statue out of the truck and up to the front door of my building.  I punch in the code, and Toby catches the door.  I think he’s going to prop it and give me a hand, but instead he just waits for me to drag her in.  It’s the stairs I need help with anyway.  Toby grabs the torch end, and I lift up the rest – I’m thinking Henderson gave it a better go than Toby, but we manage.  At the top of the stairs Toby looks at me expectantly.  I give him a five dollar bill, and he disappears down the stairs.

            Once the statue is inside, I maneuver her to a spot in front of a window next to the bookcase.  She actually looks pretty good there.  I admire her for a moment and then go into the kitchenette.  For dinner I empty the last of a box of Cheerios into a bowl without milk.  I remember now that I was supposed to pick up more cereal and milk along with a fresh case of beer at one of the Vietnamese grocery stores on the way home.

I like beer, but I try to keep my drinking under control.  I find that beer does the work of most medicines, and I usually take it like a vitamin – one per day.  It’s good, too, for taking the edge off after work.  I pop open my last can of Bud Light wondering why Toby didn’t ask me what I was doing with a six-foot replica of the Statue of Liberty, but I guess Toby doesn’t ask many questions either.

            I usually enjoy reading before bed, but tonight I’m exhausted and want to turn in early.  I’ll have to wake up at the crack of dawn if I’m going to get everything in place before Irv freaks out in the morning.  Still, I’m a little bit restless and feel inspired to look up Emma Lazarus’ “New Colossus” in honor of the statue.  I leaf through my old college texts until I find it.  It’s short, and I mostly have the poem committed to memory after a couple of times through.  By the light of a naked bulb, I take one last look at Lady Liberty poised in the shadows of my apartment and think about the words inscribed on the real one – “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…”  I’m wondering what that’s got to do with the Cowpers, and I’m feeling kind of glad they didn’t want to keep her.

***

            When morning comes, I’ve made up my mind.  I don’t even bother trying to carry the statue downstairs.  My body’s too sore and weak to do so safely anyhow, but mentally I’m refreshed and energized.  I’ve decided I can pay for the statue myself and head off Irv’s tirade.  It might mean going deeper into debt for now, but it’ll be worth it to keep the peace at work.  Anyway, I like the way she looks in my apartment.  Tacky or not, she makes the place look less empty.  Maybe she’s belonged here all along.  I can probably start doing a little extra work on the side with Paul’s catering service.  This wouldn’t be a bad idea anyway.  Then I’d be less dependent on Irv’s moods.  I have no doubt Irv will call the police if he gets there first and doesn’t see the truck parked out front.  But that’s not a problem.  Now that I don’t have to move the statue, I’ve got plenty of time to make it to the nursery before Irv gets there at eight.

Driving the streets of my neighborhood in the truck this morning, I’ve got a whole new perspective on things – more relaxed, hopeful.  I’m thinking it’s not all that bad of a place really.  Sure, some of the properties should probably be razed, but most look at least partly occupied.  And so what if the majority of stores sell greasy snacks and liquor?  They’re still open and doing business.

I know Irv must have bought in cheap here, and I think he’s being pretentious when he makes us call the nursery The Garden Experience – like it’s some kind of destination.  But then again, he’s right, in a way.  I’ve noticed neighborhood people bringing their kids to Irv’s – walking around, looking at flowers.  Sometimes I see them just sitting, listening to the fountains, that is, until Irv asks them to buy something or leave.   

Since it’s still early and I’ve got the truck, I find myself making a detour down streets I haven’t traveled in years.  Several blocks over, there’s a neighborhood that used to be something of a Little Italy when my mother was a girl.  My great-grandparents owned a small corner grocery there and lived in the apartment upstairs.  It was profitable for awhile, but eventually we lost it when my grandfather couldn’t keep it running and support four kids.  He got a good-paying job at the Allenco refinery and started working as a laborer on a rotating shift.  He never got the chance to retire, but by the time he died, he’d moved into the lab – a fact he took great pride in.  He always provided the best he could for his family.

This morning, I’m heading back there, retracing the route my father used to take on Sundays, when my mother liked driving past the old store.  For awhile, the building housed a small bakery where we’d pick up biscotti and pignoli cookies after going to Mass at St. Joseph’s.  But the bakery closed by the time I was starting fifth grade, and we had no reason to go that way.  I’m amazed at how much everything’s changed.  The streets still have Italian names, but the pizzerias and gelato caffes have been replaced by taquerias and bodegas.

I know I’m getting close to Cabrini and  West Rosalie when I cross a paved-in drainage canal.  My father always drove extra slow going over this bridge because he knew I liked checking the water for snakes and alligators.  But the corner lot I’m looking for is vacant.  I see no signs of any two-story building.  I circle the block and come back, just in case my sense of direction is off.  But, no, this is the place.  I remember the old phone company next door.  The building is crumbling, and its windows are busted out.  But the logo’s still visible, and so is a peeling mural of a white dove painted on the south wall.

I get out of the truck and walk around patches of weeds and hardpan soil where the store used to be.  I kick a bottle of Olde English, crunching fast food wrappers and broken glass as I go.  Except for this vacant lot and a radio station full of static, there’s not much left of my past anymore, and everybody I still care about is off somewhere else.  Before leaving, I take one last look at the fading mural, hoping to imprint the image in my mind.  Then, I loosen the earth with the heel of my boot and fill the empty pockets of my jeans with whatever soil I can recover.

***

            When I get back to the nursery, Irv’s nowhere in sight, and I start to panic.  My first thought is he’s already gone to the police.  But then I remember it’s still early, and he probably just hasn’t made it in yet.  Since there’s nothing else I can do until he gets here, I sit in the truck and wait.  About ten minutes later, Irv pulls up in his Jag and is knocking on my window.

            “Jerry,” he says, “what are you doing sitting in the truck?  You could be clearing the front lot of litter.”

            Before Irv can ask about the Cowpers’ delivery, I explain to him exactly what happened.  I’m thinking he’ll be happy once I tell him I’m going to buy the statue, but Irv blindsides me.

            “Shit, you idiot, you cracked that statue.”

            At first I try telling Irv that everything is fine, that there is no crack in the statue and that everything will be OK because I will buy it.  But Irv keeps ranting about losing the Cowpers’ business, and I can tell we aren’t going to see eye to eye about this or anything else.  I try once more to explain my side of the story, but I’m getting nowhere.  My life’s options may be running out, but I won’t stay here and listen to any more of this.  Irv’s still yelling as I turn and walk away from The Garden Experience.  He can bill me for the statue.

When I get home carrying a bag of cereal and milk cradled in the crook of my left arm and lugging a suitcase of beer with my right, I’m feeling like a free man and open one of the beers in a toast to Lady Liberty.  But by the time I finish the can, I’m starting to feel a little bit scared and decide that I’d better call Paul.

When I finally get through to him, Paul says there’s something I can help him with tonight.  He tells me he needs extra people to work the Cowpers’ party, and my stomach sinks.  I don’t tell him about yesterday, and though I don’t want to set foot at Cowpers’ again, I’m not in a position to refuse work – especially when it’s being offered by a friend, and it’s my best chance for finding more.  So I tell him all right, I can do it, and he says show up at his office by four.  He tells me he can’t pick me up from home, but that he has extra uniforms and everything else I’ll need at the office.  After we load up, he says, we can all ride in the van together out to Cowpers’.

***

            Even with a lousy public transportation system, four o’clock gives me plenty of time to get across town to Guidry’s Catering.  As I’m leaving, Toby’s back outside with the basketball.

            “Hey, man, you want me to look after that statue for twenty dollars?”

            This takes me by surprise, but he points up to my apartment window where Lady Liberty’s clearly visible through the glass.  I think his offer’s kind of weird, so I tell Toby not to worry about it.  Still, I decide to go back upstairs and close the curtains before leaving for Paul’s.  I’m kind of relieved when Toby isn’t in the parking lot on the way out – I’ll have to keep an eye on that kid.

I’ve helped Paul before with catering, so the only really challenging thing is to find a uniform that fits me right.  I have to settle for black pants that are a little too big and a little too short, but if I let them ride on my hips, they do all right.  The shirt fits OK, but the neck is too tight, and my Adam’s apple protrudes in an unflattering way.  The black jacket is also slightly snug, but I don’t think anyone else will notice.  I complete this poor man’s tuxedo with a black clip-on bow tie and start emptying the pockets of my jeans into the black dress pants.  That’s when I remember the dirt.  I hesitate at first, but these caterer’s pants will have to be cleaned anyway, and maybe my native soil will bring me a little luck or at least some moral support, so I transfer a handful to my left front pocket.

            As we’re leaving, I’m wondering if Mrs. Cowpers will recognize me.  My guess is that she won’t.  Henderson might, but I think I can count on him not to say anything.  I’m mad at myself for even thinking about this.  After all, I didn’t break the statue, and when Mrs. Cowpers didn’t want it, I didn’t make a fuss.  But still, the way she went off about an invisible crack makes me think that if she does recognize me, it could somehow be bad for Paul.  I feel guilty for putting him in jeopardy, but my more reasonable side insists that this shouldn’t be a problem.  I don’t see how she could hold him responsible for yesterday.

            When we arrive, we’re buzzed in at the gate.  Paul knows to take the service entrance.  We’re supposed to set up our tables at poolside.  The first thing I notice is that next to the screaming eagle someone has delivered a six-foot plaster replica of the Statue of Liberty.  It looks just like the one that I tried to bring yesterday, except that one should still be in my apartment.  I can’t imagine that Irv would have broken in and taken it while I was fiddling with connecting bus lines.  But even if he had done something that extreme, I’m not sure how he would have convinced Mrs. Cowpers to accept it.  I’m wondering if Irv’s silver tongue could have somehow worked another marvel.  Who else even sells such a thing?  Then I think about Toby offering to watch the statue.  This shakes me up, but I can’t let myself worry about it.  I try to compose myself and fall in with Paul and the other guys unloading tables and boxes of supplies.

            Soon Mrs. Cowpers shows up on her golf cart and begins inspecting everything that we’re doing.  She’s made eye-contact with me more than once but doesn’t seem to make the connection.  It appears that in this outfit, I’m truly anonymous, if not completely invisible.  She could have been looking straight through me at the eagle for all I know.  Henderson is nowhere to be seen, but she calls out other men in golf carts that frisk us and check the van, they tell us, for weapons.

            After seven, the guests begin to arrive.  The dress is black tie with only two exceptions.  The first is Reverend Cutters.  He has on some kind of liturgical garb belonging to the religious denomination he’s created for himself.  The other is Bobby Ray, who’s wearing white buckskin tonight, accessorized with an albino coonskin cap and a pearl-inlaid acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder.  Bobby Ray could have pulled this off without explanation, but I hear him telling the small circle of people gathered around him that he had this outfit designed as a tribute to the Judge’s rugged individualism.  This results in spontaneous cheers of approval, and the Judge himself – a big bear of a man – puts one arm around Bobby Ray, guitar and all, and calls for a toast.

            “To Bobby Ray,” he says.  “May he inspire through song a whole new generation of Americans so they may reclaim the greatness that is their birthright.”

            “Here, here,” says the entire crowd, erupting in agreement.

            The Reverend speaks next.  He clears his throat and then leads the party in a moment of prayer.  He asks Providence to look favorably upon the Judge and his followers for bringing such great wealth and prosperity to this land.  When he concludes, he makes one more announcement.  He tells the crowd that Bobby Ray has written a special song just for this occasion.  The crowd is delighted and makes room for Bobby Ray to move toward the eagle.  He unstraps his guitar and sits at the base of the statue of liberty.

            “This one’s for you, Judge – I call it ‘One out of Many.’”  Bobby Ray begins to strum:

            I stop listening and walk over to check the cocktail weenies.  I consider adding a little dirt to each of the dishes, but this would be wrong for a number of reasons.  I run the fingers of my left hand through the grains of soil as I walk down the buffet line lighting Sterno burners with my right.

            Bobby Ray has finished his song, and the crowd is going nuts.  These dignified pillars of society in dinner jackets and evening gowns are letting out shrieks and yells and whistles.  I hear what might be gunfire and duck behind a table, sending champagne flutes to shatter on the patio floor.  When I look up from my place on the ground amidst the crab puffs and caviar dropped by guests, I see fireworks detonating in the Judge’s honor.  My ears are ringing with the collective offense of the party as bright bursts and flashes rain down sparkling chaos.  From this vantage point, I am frightened by the faces of the people surrounding me, contorted now into frenzied masks of excitement.

Finally, I perceive the crack, and I’m terrified.  But it’s not in the statue.  It’s running all across the patio and throughout the very foundations of this estate.  There’s a jagged fissure I can trace quite clearly now from one end by the statues all the way back to the house.  Along its length, there’s division after division until it forms a corrupt network just waiting to swallow up this entire place and everyone with it.  No one else seems to realize the danger we are in, consumed as they are by the celebration, but to me it’s glaring and seems to be spreading.  I’m losing air to my lungs as my chest constricts.  But I can’t stop questioning how long any of this will remain.  I can’t pour drinks anymore, and the words of Emma Lazarus come rushing back in a jumble.  This beacon, this Mother of Exiles, belongs perched high atop an island near the sea-washed, sunset gates, offering hope and welcome to the wretched refuse of the world – not wallowing in greed, nor extending conquering limb.  I tell Paul I feel ill, and that I’m sorry, but I need to wait in the van.  Then I strip down to my undershirt and rest my head on the dashboard, wondering… When I get home will Lady Liberty still be there?  And if so, what will I do when she is?