Path to Grove City a fictional journey
Chapter 2
My progress towards Grove City moved in fits and starts; the well-traveled roads often led in other directions, and sometimes I took them just for distractions’ sake.
I came across the sight of a women and her teenage boy having a loud argument. He sported a mullet haircut and she wore a bathrobe. For a minute I thought I was watching Jerry Springer and I shamefully slowed my pace that I might hear them, although they were screaming at a volume that one could pass quickly and still hear everything a block away. They argued with great loquaciousness and impressive word play; I was taken aback by the finely-honed verbal skills. Both cut the other with the sharpest stilettos and no mercy was shown though the woman was sobbing profusely, her face blanketed with tears.
A woman crying is something that I can't bear to hear and yet the child granted no quarter, at least not initially. It seemed that the emotions of these people were closer to the surface than most, they loved more ardently, fought more furiously, sobbed more uncontrollably. I sat at a nearby bus stop, too caught up in the soap opera to leave and hoping for a resolution, which finally arrived. They alternately gave and conceded ground before finding resolution, after which they hugged and forgave each other such that the argument seemed to serve only to bring them closer, as if the expenditure of emotional energy and the copious tears were proof of their love. And I briefly thought of Israel-
LECTOR. Israel!? What does Israel got to do with a mother and son arguing outside a bus stop? Must you always bring up religion?
AUCTOR. It’s my story and I can talk of religion if I like. As I was saying…Israel literally means, “struggles with God”, taken from Jacob’s wrestling match. God was also a parent to Israel so there is that parallel, and it was interesting to see how this mother/son struggle seemed necessary to get to a greater love.
LECTOR. I'd thank you to leave your symbols to yourself and continue the story.
I continued my travels another mile before stopping at a local tavern named the "Abner's Elbow Room”. It was dusty and quiet and dark, and accurately reflected the image of the bars of my youth, a place almost meditational at this hour of the day for it was just two o’clock in the afternoon. I sat in a stool and asked for a PBR. A man who looked hard on his luck was sitting a couple stools over, nursing what looked to be a plain water.
“Pacing yourself ‘eh?”
“I’m a recovering alchy. Been dry two weeks. Missed the quiet time so I come back for this,” pointing and grimacing at his drink.
I come to find out his name was Bill and bit my tongue in order not to ask “Bill W?”. I asked instead if he’d been to AA and he said he that’s how he’s been dry, although he shouldn’t be here now.
I’d always wondered about the “Higher Power” mentioned at AA meetings. No God who entered history, who died for you personally, no god who gave Himself to eat. Just a “Higher Power”, thin gruel it seemed but it worked. They were changed men which spoke to God’s power but also to the men themselves, men beaten down and given up, who in their misery were more inclined to say uncle to God. Prodigal sons.
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